The 5th Wave
by girlontheindex
Summary: Daisy runs. Runs from the beings that have killed everybody she's ever known. The world around her empty, she believe she's one of the last survivors on Earth. To stay alone is to stay alive. That is until she meets Grant Ward. Mysterious, yet kind and charming, he's her last hope. However, can she trust him to help her find her sister? Can she trust him not to break her heart?
1. The Crucifix

**A.N: Anybody who has read or seen** ** _The 5th Wave_** **will know what an amazing book slash film it is. And anybody familiar with my stories will know that I love to incorporate other stories into my own. Rick Yancey is such a brilliant writer, I just hope I've done this justice. Please enjoy!**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own _The 5th Wave,_ as that honour belongs to the brilliant Rick Yancey.**

 **Chapter Song: _Breezeblocks_ by alt-J**

DAISY

Aliens must think we're stupid. Stupid, and gullible.

The air was bitter, biting at my nose, and the frost on the ground caused the leaves to crackle under my foot. Every owl hoot and wild dog cry startled me, causing me to jump slightly each time. Moonlight peaked through the long, spindly branches, causing iridescent and pearly beams of light to stretch across the forest floor. It was this light which guided me across the now empty motorway, strewn with the oddest objects abandoned by previous survivors to walk this road.

On the other side, there stood a convenience store. It had been ransacked by countless others, so I didn't feel quite so guilty rummaging around. And anyway, there's not exactly anybody left to arrest me.

Looking around, I rolled my eyes at the scene that surrounded me. People hadn't taken the canned fruit, or the cereal bars, or even the pre-bottled water, but the beer, and the _Krispy Kreme_ donuts. No wonder I haven't seen another living soul for over three months now - they've all died of diabetes and thirst.

Mentally, I scrolled down my list of items, checking my basket as I did so. Why I had reached for the basket when I stepped foot inside the store, I'm not entirely sure. Old habits die hard I guess. Speaking of habits, I craved actual texture. Not the dry, dust-covered almonds I chewed on to give my teeth something to do. Not the acidic, slimy peaches my everyday breakfast consisted of. But real flavour, real substance. In my mind I could picture the deep-dish, mouth-watering pizza, coated in tangy slices of pineapple, and salted pieces of ham; the kind dad would order in after work.

Closing my eyes, I clutched my stomach as I felt the rumble before I heard it echo. Why would I torture myself like this? It's highly unlikely that I'm ever going to eat Hawaiian pizza again. It's highly unlikely I'm going to get to do much ever again.

Sighing, I gathered up the things I truly needed - the necessities. For instance, toothpaste, water, tampons, canned meat. The nuts I despised with a burning intensity were a luxury. With much frustration, I stood up, loading my haul into my backpack. The unmoving, glass eyes of a stuffed toy stared back at me from the bottom of my bag, causing a lump to form in my throat. It dredged up memories and promises that were just too painful for me to think about. Zipping my bag up hastily, and grabbing my M16 from off of the shelf, I turned to leave with the faintest glimmer of a tear in my eye, when I heard the cry.

Prominently male, and ever-so feeble, it was enough to release a startled gasp from my lips. At first I was frozen to the spot, unable to move. Like I said, it had been three months since I'd made with contact with anybody - any human at least. My trust was fading, if there was any left. Was this a trap, set to ensnare me? _Kill me_. I'd killed enough of them, maybe they were finally sick of the city-girl blowing holes through their skulls.

I could turn and leave, and not risk my chances. I could still survive this, and I could get out unscathed. But what if there is another survivor behind those doors? What if they're in there, bleeding out, and I'm their last hope. Could I really live with myself knowing I left him in there, to die?

Raising my rifle, I took a shaky step forward. I may carry a gun, but I still lead with my heart. With my head, with my morales, with my humanity. I find myself walking towards the back room, where he lay. I could hear his ragged breath through the door. It was slow, and heavy, and I knew he was in pain. With the little shred of bravery I clung onto, I pushed open the door handle, though my grip tightened on my gun as I did so. He jumped, so I jumped. He was pointing a gun at me, though it was considerably smaller than mine. A pistol. It was still powerful enough to put a bullet between my eyes.

"Put the gun down!" he called to me, just as I shouted the same to him. "Put it down now!"

Fiercely, I kept my guard up, and my finger tightened on the trigger. Gritting my teeth, I shook my head. "You first!" I yell. I wasn't going to let this guy think he had any kind of control over me or the situation. I was the healthy one here, not him. I was the one who could walk out of the store any time I liked. Not him.

Realising this, he drops his hand, beads of sweat trailing down his forehead. His left hand, I notice, is still tucked away inside his jacket, hidden. My heart hammers away inside my chest. Why won't he show me?

"Show me your hand!"

Shaking his head at me, screwing his face up in despair. Tears fell from his contorted face, and it was incredibly heartbreaking. It was also something _they_ would do to get somebody to drop their guard. This whole thing reeked completely of false intentions. Why was there no blood? Why won't he show me his damn hand?

"Show me the fucking hand!"

I was being harsh, but I couldn't care less. Not if he wasn't human.

"Show me - "

"I can't!" he roared back, banging his head against the wall. "I can't move my hand, or else my guts will spill out."

I wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. Whether it was a _him_ or not.

"Just show me!"

Giving in, I watched as he slowly retracted his arm. Narrowing my eyes, I waited, impatiently. I've always been told I sometimes act to rashly. Act without thinking. I never thought it an issue, not really. I saw it as a shortcut, a way to avoid all the bullshit.

I guess that's why when I saw the glint of metal reflect off of the moonlight, I pulled the trigger. Twice. I don't know why twice.

He screamed - or maybe I screamed - and then the silence engulfed us both. My ears rang with the sound of the gunshot, and it was deafening. I dropped the gun, though it was still attached to my neck by the strap I wore. My gaze was fixated on the crucifix the man wore. Not the hidden gun I thought he held. Blood was spilling out of the gash in his ribs and the hole in his forehead. His eyes, though glazed over, bore directly into me. He knew what I was going to do, before I did myself. He'd given up, and showed me his hand, even though he knew he would die. I didn't know that he was going to kill me for sure, so I finished him off rather than risk it. I killed an innocent man, because I was afraid.

What does that say about me? What does that say about my faith?

I guess I need to explain. Explain what's going on, though I don't fully comprehend it myself. Explain who I am, and who I was. Or else, you'll think I'm an awful person.

My name is Daisy Johnson. I'm seventeen, and I lived in Chicago, before this whole mess.

Six months ago, to this day, on the 9th of July, the mothership to end all motherships orbited into our atmosphere. First it appeared over Hong Kong, and the horrible, clunky piece of space metal plastered all over the news. I remember the pictures surfacing on social media, the posts spilling in by the thousands. I was sat in Physics, the most brain-numbing subject in the entire curriculum, when my lab partner slipped his phone under the table to show me his _Twitter_ feed, which was jam-packed with the image of this alien spaceship hovering over Japan.

Believing I knew a hoax when I saw one, I had shook my head at him, calling him a plethora of names and practically laughing at the possibility of an alien arrival. Looking back now, if I was in the other kid's position, I would have slapped me for being so naïve. _Aliens? On Earth? Don_ _'_ _t be so ridiculous, that kind of thing only happens in the films. Last I checked, this isn_ _'_ _t an episode of Falling Skies._

Slowly, but surely, after crossing China, Afghanistan, Iran, Turkey, Greece, Italy, France and the United Kingdom, it found it's way to America.

I was waiting for Lola at pre-school, and for our mom to drive us home, when I remember feeling a shiver up my spine. It was as if the darkest clouds imaginable had all clustered in the sky to block out the sun. Shrugging my plaid button-down further over my shoulders, I looked up to sky, and felt my jaw drop. Above me was the infamous flying saucer - though it was a little bigger then the shiny, metallic discs they show you in the films.

About fifty thousand feet up into the air, was this gigantic, hunk of metal, the size of a continent. Every now and then an emerald green light would flicker from onboard. I could see my own tiny reflection on the underside of the ship. I was just one of dozens of people in the street who had looked up. I was just one of thousands of people in Chicago who had looked up. I was one of billions in the world who looked up.

Lola, my five year old little sister, ran out of the doors, among many other rosy-cheeked five year olds, into my arms. Dropping my school bag, I picked her up with both arms, hoisting her onto my hip. Her smile was nearly enough to make me forget what was looming over our heads.

"Daisy, look at the sticker I got! Look at the sticker!" she called to me, thrusting her t-shirt in my face. On her chest was a fluorescent yellow, smiley face, staring at me wildly and intently. It would have been the most unnerving thing I'd seen all day, if there wasn't _a freaking mothership_ floating above me.

"Wow, Lola," I replied, with the most enthusiastic smile I could give. "That's fantastic."

Over her shoulder, I locked eyes with our mom, who had clocked the spaceship too. She looked concerned, and filled with dread. Quickly she approached us, wrapping her arms around both of us. Kissing me on the forehead, softly and tentatively, she gestured for me to take Lola to the car. I nodded, and picked up the bag I'd dropped.

"How has your day been, sweetie?" she asks Lola, in a monotonous kind of tone.

We were both trying to distract her from looking upwards. Neither one of us wanted to scare her, to scare the little girl who got spooked so easily. When she was two, I had to take her out of the cinema when we went to see _Frozen,_ because when Elsa made the snow monster out of thin air - how? why? - the roaring made her cry. Of course I just _had to take her again_ , because 'Emily went two times last week, and she didn't cry once, so I have to go again!'.

I ran my fingers through Lola's golden hair, though in this dark light it looked slightly brown. She was still chattering away bless her, about what she made out of her clay, and what instrument she played in recess. I was half-listening, half-watching my mom. Every now and then she would look up to the sky, and I'd see that shred of fear flicker in her amber-brown eyes. It was the same look she has in her eyes when dad won't come home from work until the early hours in the morning. The same look she wore when Auntie Helena died in that car crash three years ago.

It's despair, and worry, and dread all rolled into one. It made me fear the worst. If my mom, the woman who could battle sharks and fight off ninjas simultaneously, was afraid, then why shouldn't I be?

Then, sensing my concern I guess as I belted Lola into her carseat in the back, she turned to look at me, her face brightening up. Suddenly, she seemed like she had the widest of smiles on, and hope glinting in her eyes. It was enough to get me to wake up and realise that if she had faith, then I had faith.

"It'll be okay, petal," she mouthed, climbing into the front seat. Reaching out, her fingertips brushed my knuckles. It was a universally known gesture for _everything will be fine_. "I promise."

I shouldn't have held her to that promise. It wasn't fair of me to expect my mom to know everything, or at least know what was going to happen. Nobody did.

Anyway, that was then, and this is now. Then, I held onto my baby sister, and my mom for support. Now, I clutch my M16.

Before the Arrival, I despised guns. Ironic really, for a cop's daughter to hate the one thing that kept him alive most days, but there it is. So many things have changed since that mothership descended down to our Earth. I had a family, for one. I had a mother, who I loved dearly, and a father who protected. I'm hoping I still have a sister, but it doesn't look good for a five year old girl, alone, deep in the depths of the enemy's clutches.

Positivity was something I most definitely needed to improve. Not just for my sake, but for Lola. She needed her sister to come save her. She needed me. If I thought she was dead, or at least as good as, then I could never forgive myself. Never. I couldn't give up hope.

I had to go and save her.


	2. The Last Normal Day

**A.N: Thank you for being patient, and waiting for the update. I've got mocks all this week, for every single one of my subjects. I intend on passing at least one this time, so my writing has been pushed aside for the moment. Thank you for supporting it, and if you're enjoying it don't forget to review. Cheers! :)**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own _The 5th Wave_ , that privilege belongs to the magnificent Rick Yancey.**

 **Chapter Song: _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ by Nirvana**

DAISY

I used to be normal. Or at least, as normal as your typical teenage girl can get these days.

I would go to school everyday. I'd pick up Jemma, my best friend with the quaintest English accent you've ever heard, in my faded red, 1969 beaten up Camaro SS and together we'd ride to our local high school, in Roseland, Chicago. Most days we'd have Kanye West belting out of the speakers, meaning Jemma would sit with her fingers in her ears. If I felt like mixing it up a little, Whitney Houston was our other favourite.

We'd pull up to school, sighing as we looked upon the dull, beige building with the peeling paint and crumbling roof tiles. Like most of town, this building was stuck in 1973. Nobody had bothered to do anything at all with it in forty years, and nobody will do anything with it for the next forty.

Arm in arm, we'd push open the doors, and walk the corridors with our heads held high. Of course, this doesn't mean we ruled school or anything, we just liked to pretend we were in an episode of _Saved By The Bell_. I hated school with a passion, whereas Jemma thrived among all the knowledge and the books. We had't been in the same set for any of our classes since kindergarten. Jemma was always the smartest, and that was fine by me. I survived high school by reaping the benefits of my enhanced Computer Science skills. This was the one thing I excelled at, and I exploited it enormously. I had fake I.D's pouring out of me left, right and centre, and I had been known to bump someone's grade up once in a while. Jemma would look the other way whilst I struck deals with fellow students every other day. It was a concept that worked for us.

My mom and dad, however, where much less displeased with my extracurricular activities. Being a cop's daughter meant that once a week he would threaten to drive me down to the police station and arrest me himself. Twice, he has. Apparently it was immoral, and apparently it was wrong of me, and I would apologise every time, though sometimes I would find myself doubting whether I actually ever meant it.

Mom was kinder to me than I deserved. She was a beautiful woman, inside and out, and there wasn't a day that went by that I wasn't grateful for her compassion. She loved me dearly, and it still keeps me up at night, tears pricking my eyes, wondering whether I ever told her I loved her enough. I remember on my eleventh birthday she baked this butterfly cake that was far too pretty to be eaten. In icing on top she had written ' _Spread your wings, little butterfly. We_ _'_ _ll be here when you land._ ' I'd cried because nothing had ever meant so much to me.

Dad, on the other hand, was different. He adored me when I was a little girl. I could have gotten away with murder, and he would still pick me up in his arms and rub his nose against mine and call me his flower. The second my baby sister was born, however, everything changed. No longer was I his cherished flower, but his burden, that he was forced to clothe and feed. I could see it when he would look at Lola, and see the same glint in his eye he looked at me with once upon a time. Then he would look at me like I was just another vigilante he picked of the street.

I'm sure he still loved me though. In his own way. He just seemed incapable of showing me the older I got. The day I hit seventeen, it was as if the little girl with the butterfly cake didn't exist any more, and instead this stranger stood in her place. It was as if she had died, and was the replacement. That's fine though. I got used to being the second hand doll, disregarded and buried at the bottom of the toy box, pretty quickly.

I remember the day before the Arrival. The last normal day. It was a Thursday, which meant match night. The pride of the town, the Rosedale Rhino's, were playing some local team that I can't even recall the name of now. They couldn't have been that good though, because we wiped the pitch with them, finishing with a total score of 10-24, to us of course. This obviously called for a celebration, and what better way than with a party?

Me and Jemma had gotten ready round hers - if my dad knew we were going out so late at night, he'd hit the ceiling, so I assured him it was just revision. I can only just picture what we looked like in my mind. She had on a pretty blue blouse, a pair of jeans and some red converse, whilst I wore black skinny jeans, a dark green plaid button-down, grey shirt and black boots. In her car we talked about who was going to be there, and who we wanted to see.

"You know, he's going to be there," she had said, with a hint of a smirk.

I had pretended like I didn't know who she meant, whilst also controlling my irrational heartbeat. "Who?"

"You know who."

I did know who. Lincoln Campbell, captain of the aforementioned football team, and completely gorgeous with hair the colour of honey and eyes the colour of the sky. The same Lincoln Campbell I feel head-over-heels for in fourth grade. The same Lincoln Campbell who has yet to notice me.

"I don't care if he's there. I don't care if Obama's going to be there. I just want to have a good time with my best friend."

"Aww, that's sweet. A complete pack of lies, but sweet all the same."

And we laughed, like we always had. Like I thought we always would do. That's something I'm always going to miss; not the car, or the music, or even the parties, but moments like that, with Jemma. Inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but completely necessary for those freezing and lonely nights when just about everything is frightening you.

We arrived at this party, at some senior's house. The crowd was already spilling out of the house, and you could feel the music through the vibrations in the ground. Smiling, I looked over at Jemma, who always had this nervous, apprehensive look in her eye right before we entered any kind of social gathering.

"It'll be alright," I muttered to her, reassuringly. "You've got me, and I have you. That's all we need really."

She breathed, and beamed warmly at me.

"Well, that and beer. Lots of beer."

Then we did what we always did when we came to parties - we danced. It was some preppy bullshit, one of the ones where 'oh' and 'baby' is repeated far too much. I didn't care though. I was hazy after the three beers, and I was with my best friend. Nothing seemed to be important.

At around eleven, I made my way over to the keg to top up. Jemma was talking to some guy in her Advanced Biology class, who had this goofy grin on his face, so I didn't mind leaving her side. I wouldn't have gone alone, however, if I had of seen Miles Lydon waiting there.

We'd dated for a while last year, when I was a sophomore and he was a senior. Dad didn't like the idea of me going out with somebody two years older than me, so I guess that's what attracted me to him. He had this whole front-runner-of-an-indie-rock-band look going for him, with the stubble and the denim jacket, which I kind of thought was dreamy. He also drove this really cool 1971 Chevrolet C10 Cheyenne in jet black, which I adored. Dating him made me look like one of those cool girls you see in the films who don't give a shit, and listen to really eclectic music, and smoke six packs a day. However, I'm one of those girls who cares too much, and listens to Kanye, and can't stand the smell of tobacco. I wear ripped jeans, so I suppose I'm halfway there.

It was about eight months in to our relationship when I realised that it shouldn't matter what I look like when I'm with him. It should be about how I feel, and it turns out I wasn't all that happy. I tried to break it off, but things got messy, and now he can't seem to accept the fact I've moved on. Though he graduated last year, he still hangs around all the parties. Part of me wants to say it's because of me, but I know it's because of the free alcohol.

Sighing I run my hands through my hair, and keep my gaze focused on my red solo cup. I hoped - no, I prayed - that he wouldn't see me, that the beer would have affected his sight. Sadly, it had only reached his speech so far.

"Oh, hey Da . . Da . . . Daisy," he stuttered, turning to face me, slurring his words sloppily. He grinned, thinking that this was supposed to do something for me. It didn't. "Funny seeing you here."

"Yeah, funny running into you - _a grown man_ \- at a high school party celebrating _my school_ _'_ _s_ achievements. So funny," I answered, rolling my eyes.

He chuckled, despite my obvious resentment in him being there. "So, listen babe, I've been thinking about us - "

"Oh God, did you just call me babe?" I ask, my lip curling up. Miles furrowed his eyebrows, as though he's puzzled by my outburst. "And there's no us. Not any more."

He takes a step closer to me, which I'm not okay with. "That's just the beer talking, babe."

I actually laugh in his face. I haven't had nearly half as much alcohol as him, and the fact he assumes my refusal to him has to mean I'm drunk - it's laughable, it really is.

"Miles, _babe_ , you need to wake up and pull your head out of your ass - "

His hands shoots across the small space between us so swiftly, and seizes ahold of my face, that I barely comprehend what is happening. My breath hitches in my throat, as I remember the _other_ reason for breaking up with Miles. _This reason._

"You're such a smartass you know that, you little bitch," he spits. His face is so close to mine I can smell the liquor and the tobacco on his breath, and it lingers in my nose, making me feel lightheaded and a little sick. "Why you think you can talk to me like that - "

"Like what? The washed up college dropout you are?" I shouldn't have said that. I knew I shouldn't have said it the second the words left my lips. I was always making mistakes like this when we were together. You'd think I'd have learned. Learned not to push him.

His other hand rises into the air, and falls down upon my cheek, hard. The force is enough to knock me to the ground. The whistling sound as he brought his hand down, and the echoing _clap_ as it came into contact with my flesh resonates in my ears for a while after, and I could feel the blood rushing to the surface. My cheek throbbed, as though it has it's own separate heartbeat. Tears burn my eyes, and they threaten to spill, whilst my lip quivers.

Miles, looming over me, suddenly comes to his senses, and rushes to the floor, full of apologies. He tries to comfort me with his touch, but it was his touch that frightened me so much. I tried to shake him off, but this only spurred him on. He tried to help me up, but I pushed him off me. I called out to him to leave me alone. The next thing I know, a figure approaches us, and his fist connects with Miles' nose. Blood gushes everywhere, and out of fear of getting punched again, he stumbles away. The same hand reaches out to me, and helps me to my feet. His touch his warm, and a shiver gets sent up my spine as we brush fingertips.

Looking up into the eyes of my saviour - God that's cheesy - I realise that it was none other than Lincoln Campbell. With his honey coloured hair pushed back off his face, leaving his eyes the colour of the sky free to bore into my own. He smiles, and it's this smile that makes me weak-kneed again. He holds my elbow to steady me, though all it does is make things worse.

"You okay?" he asks me, in his soft voice, empathy dripping off of every syllable.

I nod, not quite sure what to tell him. He mistakes my inability to speak as a symptom of a concussion, and immediately dives into a bowl on the table and retrieves a handful of ice, which he wraps in one of the napkins, and places on my cheek. It's not the sudden temperature change that shocks me, but the graze of his fingertips against my skin.

"What that guy did, it wasn't right," he sighs, shaking his head. He brings my hand to his, allowing me to hold the makeshift ice pack to my face. _He held my hand._ Not directly, but still. Then he bites his lip, and hesitantly adds; "Has he done that before?"

I'm so distracted by the cardinal sin he committed by biting his lip like that, that I nearly forget to answer. And then I'm not sure what to say. Do I lie, and say Miles has never hit me before, and end the conversation there and avoid messy questions, or do I tell the truth, and risk the fallout, but ultimately, keep him here for a while? Obviously, I choose the latter.

"It's happened before, yes" I tell him, in a small voice.

He curses under his breath, and I can't help but feel a little excited that he cares even just the slightest about me.

"You're not still seeing him, are you?"

I shake my head - a little too eagerly. "Oh, no. I ended it last year, he just . . . doesn't know how to let go."

"You must be some girl," he smirks, and I swear to God every bone in my body turns to mush, and all become replaced by butterflies. I blush, and mentally reprimand myself. Suddenly, one of the senior cheerleaders saunters past, locking eyes with Lincoln. Just like that, it's as if I don't exist. My heart sinks, as I watch him watch her.

"Listen, if that guy bothers you again, you just ask for me, alright?" he assures me. It's a nice suggestion, but he's only barely aware of what he's saying, his attention ensnared by the long-legged blonde in the corner. "It'll get better, Daley."

 _Daley? Who the hell is Daley? Does he think my name is Daley? Oh my God, he does. He really does._

Then, when I didn't think he could of crushed my hopes any more, he pats me on the shoulder. A pat on the fucking shoulder. If that's not friend-zoning at it's finest, then I don't know what is. I sheepishly and foolishly smile as he walks away, though the second his back is turned I feel like flipping the table over. Frustration is boiling under my skin, and it's threatening to spew.

I go to find Jemma, and I realise she is still talking with that guy she knows from Biology. I almost consider letting her stay and talk, but then I decide against it, and scrawl her number onto one of the napkins beside me. Bounding over to the pair of them, I hand him the tissue, explain what it is, and pull her away. She protests at first, but then spots the discolouring on my face, and I know that it's already staring to bruise.

"What happened?" she cries, rushing to take a look. Somebody, Jemma had hoped to be a doctor. She would have been good too, if it wasn't for the Arrival.

"Miles happened," I sigh, waving it off. "Listen, I'm going to need to stay at yours tonight, if that's cool. I can't risk dad seeing me like this."

Jemma's face falls, and I'm about to ask why, when I hear the sirens. I don't have to turn around to know who was behind the wheel of the lone cop car pulling up. Internally, I scream. Externally, I freeze. I watch, helplessly, as dad climbs out, crossing his arms across his chest as he does so.

"You've missed your curfew!" he calls out to me, across the road. Everybody is watching now, and I'm no longer worrying that he'll spot the bruise, because I'm pretty sure the heat rising to my face is enough to cover it. "Do I have to come across there and drag you home, young lady? What do you think you're mother is going to say?"

That's it. That's the last straw. He always brings her up, because he knows that's the way to get me to feel guilty for what I've done. Well, it's not going to work this time.

I mutter my goodbye to Jemma, and begin my walk across the grass, feeling every eye on me as I do so. "I don't know _Phil_ , what would my mom say?" I taunt him, knowing that he hates it when I call him by his first name. "Maybe something along the lines of 'Oh, so this is what you look like'."

He grits his teeth, and I spot his knuckles turn white as his grip on the car door tightens. "Enough, Daisy. Just get in the car." But it's not.

"Where should I sit? In the back, like the criminal I am?" I climb into the backseat, and immediately I'm greeted by the bars that separate the vigilantes from the cops. What a depressing view. "This brings back memories. I wonder if this is where my dad sat all those years ago."

All the colour drains from his face, and he rushes to my side of the car, and pulls me out with such strength. I shake him off me, aggressively, and get in the front. He slams the door when both of my legs are in, and I catch his expression through the stained windowpane. It's a mixture of disappointment, anger, and hurt.

He joins me in the front, and we pull away from the party, the tension between us thick.

"What happened to your face?" he demands.

"Ah, well that's a funny story. This once-in-a-lifetime asteroid crashed down to Earth about an hour ago, and of all the people to land on, it chose me."

No answer.

"I thought we agreed you'd call me dad in public," he then adds, in a surprisingly calm voice. He is unable to look anywhere near me however.

"Why? It doesn't matter. Everybody knows I'm not yours. I don't exactly look like you, do I," I mutter.

He doesn't answer, and we continue the drive home in silence. When we reach our house on Lilydale Drive, I use my key to get in, and walk in without waiting for him. I can spot mom in the living room, fast asleep on the couch, the television still blaring. I switch it off, and proceed to fetch a blanket to cover her with. She doesn't stir, so I know it's safe to kiss her. I press my lips to her cheek, and I whisper "I love you" in her ear. Then, I push past dad in the doorway, and ascend the stairs. I push open the door to Lola's room first, and I'm surprised to see her still sat up, eyes wide.

"You weren't here to tuck me in," she whimpers. Glancing at the clock on her bedside table, I see that it's just gone quarter to twelve. Lola's bedtime is seven thirty. She's been up a whole four hours waiting for me, and that alone is enough to break my heart.

"Sorry, little ladybug," I tell her, perching myself on the end of her bed. "How can I make it up to you?"

She ponders for a little while, holding her finger to her chin, and I giggled a little.

"Sing me a song!" she finally replies, and I agree immediately.

I sing her the same lullaby I sang to her as a baby, and the same lullaby I remember being sung as a kid, though I can't recall the face. Lola falls asleep within the first couple of lines, though I continue anyway. I finish, and kiss her forehead, gently. I stay a little while to gaze at her whilst she slept. She was beautiful like mom, with the same soft features and wispy hair. However, she had dad's eyes, when they were open. That's why I could stay to look at her whilst she was sleeping.

If I had known what was going to come the next day, then I would have never gone to sleep that night.


	3. Five Senses

**A.U: Sorry for the late update, like I said I've been swamped with exams this week. I should be able to update more regularly soon, however. Thanks for the support!**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own The 5th Wave, that right belongs to the ever incredible Rick Yancey.**

 **Chapter Song: _Distant Past_ by Everything Everything**

DAISY

I couldn't have possibly imagined how my day would have turned out the morning of the Arrival.

I honestly thought it couldn't get any worse when I woke up with a pounding head and a throbbing cheek, and went downstairs only to have my dad stare disappointedly at me, and have my mom fret about the bruise.

Firstly, I had Lola come bounding in to my room at eight in the morning, screaming down my ear that I'd slept in. Her knees dug into my ribcage like bony thorns, and as she jumped up and down, all the wind got knocked out of me. For somebody so small, she sure could do some damage.

"Wakey wakey sleepyhead!" she cried, in that adorable way five year olds speak, meaning nothing can come across irritating, no matter how hungover or tired you are.

"You cheeky monkey," I tease, rolling her off of me, tickling her sides so that she shrieked with infectious laughter.

We stay like this for a while, until I hear my dad's booming voice call to me from downstairs. I sigh, and lift myself out of bed, with Lola in my arms. She clings to me, fiddling with my tangled mess of hair has she does so.

In the kitchen, mom greets me with a good morning and a kiss, which I'm more than happy to return. She nuzzles Lola's nose, who giggles again, causing me to laugh too, as I take my seat at the table, with my little sister on my lap. Then, I look up and spot dad from across the table, and immediately I cease, my lips thinning out into a straight line. I refuse to acknowledge him, so he drops his newspaper to the table.

"Are you going to tell me what happened last night, or am I going to have to wait until somebody files a report at the station?"

I grit my teeth, loathing the fact he would bring this up again, in front of mom. Like a flash of lightning, she swivels her head round, forgetting the stack of pancakes she has on the griddle. Her eyes widen, and she puts her hand on her hip as she glances, concerned, between dad and me.

"Why, what's happened? Daisy?" she inquires. It doesn't take her long until she notices the bruise on my face, which I expect to be a brilliant blue by now. She bounds over to me, and delicately runs her fingertip across my skin, which is swollen and tender. Gasping, she rushes to the fridge to retrieve a bag of frozen peas, which she wraps in a tea towel before handing to me.

"Petal, who hit you?" she asks, in a soft voice. Lola overhears, and glances to look at my face, with curiosity.

Before I can answer, dad interrupts, with exasperation evident in his voice. That felt worse than the punch.

"Audrey, how do we know Daisy didn't provoke this other girl, I mean - "

Just the mere fact he would assume I started the fight, much less that it was with another girl, is enough to make the blood boil to my head. I cut him off this time, before he can slander me any more.

"It was Miles," I breathe, though I immediately regret telling the truth. The anger on dad's face was purely terrifying. He slowly rose out of his chair, and approached me, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"That asshole I arrested last year?" he asked, in an unnervingly calm tone. I cover Lola's ears when he curses. "Erik Lydon's boy?"

I nod. Disbelief is written all over mom's face. She inspects my bruise closer, and covers her mouth with her hand, shaking her head.

"Oh sweetie," she says gently.

"What were you doing with him?" dad barks, causing all of us to jump. I kiss Lola on the forehead, and tell her to go and get her things ready for school. She doesn't question it. She's good like that.

I get up out of my chair, and stand face-to-face with dad. I look him in the eyes, and I see nothing but cold despondency in the hazel orbs. I've disappointed him, I know I have. I always do. What I don't understand is why _me_ getting hit is _my fault,_ and why he despises me so much for it.

"I went to the party last night, and Miles just turned up. I didn't invite him, and I tried to ignore him. This only made him angrier. I did nothing to deserve it." I speak with a wobbly voice, which mom picks up on instantly, as she wraps a comforting arm around my shoulders, holding me close to her.

"Of course you didn't deserve it, petal," she assures me, rubbing my back. I can make out dad's face as she does this, and it's a mixture of reject and frustration. "We know you didn't deserve it."

"Well, that's what he meant," I murmur. "He thinks it's all my fault. It's always my fault. Every awful thing that's ever happened to this family is all down to me, isn't it Phil?"

He doesn't answer, though all the colour drains from his face. I should have stopped here. I should have apologised. I didn't.

"I can see it in your eyes. Disappointment. It's always there. You're disappointed with how I turned out. You thought you could turn me into the perfect little girl, then Lola came along, and you realised you'd got it completely wrong. Well, I've got news for you Phil - "

His hands crashes down on the countertop, causing an echoing thud to reverberate off of the kitchen walls. I jump back, despite myself, and it feels like a smack to the face.

"What did I tell you about calling me Phil!" he cries, and that's when I hear it. Hear the hurt. It's real, and it's raw, and I instantly regret ever uttering a bad word to him. And yet, my lips still keep moving, and I don't know how to stop them.

"Because you're not my real dad!" I yell. Tears stream down my face, and they feel cold on my heated cheeks. He flinches, and I'm so very afraid that I've ruined it all. I fully except him to march me over to the police car outside, and drop me back off at the station, or worse - the orphanage again.

"Is that how you feel?" he asks me slowly, and at first I find it impossible to answer. I glance between him, and mom, and I can feel my heart tear at their expressions. Mom is shocked, and dad - though now I feel guilty calling him dad - is staring at me with such intensity, I fear he knows what I'm going to say, before I do.

"Sometimes, yes," I breathe, in a quiet voice, so I half hope that they don't hear. They do. "I mean, you have a real daughter now. Aren't you sick of me?"

With remorse at admitting how I felt, and anger at ever having to feel that way, I don't think I can stand hearing their reply. The tension is too heavy, and looking at their faces is just too painful. I excuse myself, and tread the stairs carefully. At the top, I see Lola sat, her cherished teddy bear enveloped in her arms, with a bemused look on her face. My heart sinks, and immediately I know that she could hear every single word. I perch down next to her, and let her put her little head in my lap. She seems to still be processing what I said, as it's a long time until she says anything. And when she does, I can't bear to tell her the truth.

"I just said that to hurt him, Lola," I say, half-truthfully. "I didn't mean it, don't worry."

Whether she believed me or not, I'll never know. I kissed her forehead, and got up to get myself ready for school. I couldn't bring myself to wave dad off, but mom I could hug. She was quiet, as though she didn't want to make anything worse by talking about it. Her eyes are swarming with sadness, however, and I have to bite back the tears.

"He wouldn't change a thing, petal," she whispers, as I turn the lock of the door. "Nothing at all."

And with that I give her a lopsided smile, bittersweet, and walk to my Camaro awaiting me in the driveway. I fumble with the key in the lock, but I eventually manage to clamber inside, the faint smell of the raging leather strangely calming. I can see mom in the doorway as I drive off, and Lola in the window on the stairs. She's using her teddy to wave to me.

School wasn't much better. News about Miles hitting me, and dad coming to pick me up and spread like wild fire, and Jemma had to hold me back from smacking a couple of ninth graders. And to add to my previous humiliation of the night before, Lincoln thought it would be a great idea to approach me at lunch. I mean, it was very considerate, if he had chosen to come over literally any other time. I was sick of everybody and everything, and when I'd heard a voice behind me when at long last it seemed I'd found solace, I snapped. Swivelling my head, I saw Lincoln instead, looking very startled. I immediately wished that the ground would swallow me up. However, like the chill guy he was, he shook it off.

"Been one of those days, huh?" he jokes, with that killer grin of his. It's nearly enough to make me forget he thought I was called Daley.

"You don't know the half of it" I sigh, rubbing my eyes.

He chuckles slightly, and I kid you not, I swear that's the sound you hear when you walk through the gates of heaven. It feels me with butterflies, just the mere fact that I made Lincoln freaking Campbell laugh. Then, one of his mates comes over, and it really feels like the world is conspiring against me. He seems pretty eager to show Lincoln something on his phone, which causes his jaw to drop.

"Have you seen this Daley?" he asks me, and I have to resist screaming out loud. He holds out the phone, and I spot the same picture that guy had showed me in Physics. I roll my eyes.

"You can't really believe all that alien bullshit?" I say, despite myself. The two boys stare at me as though I'd tried to convince them that grass was purple, and I shift uneasily under their scrutiny. Under Lincoln's scrutiny.

"This ' _alien bullshit_ ' is all over the news," the other guy tells me, rather matter-of-factly. "It's not some kind of hoax, if that's what you think."

"It's just another Loch Ness Monster and Bigfoot con," I shrug. "It'll probably be some kid's LEGO model, or something."

Lincoln smiles at me, as though he agrees. I smile back, whilst his friend scoffs. Clearly, he thinks I'm just some other pessimist, or incredibly stupid.

"Listen, I don't know if you understand how cameras work, but you can't fake a shot like this," he proceeds to tell me, in a slow voice, as if he thought I wasn't able to comprehend English.

"I mean, maybe you're right. Maybe technology is just far too advanced for my tiny brain to fathom," I begin. "But then, who was it who printed off your Fake I.D.? Oh that's right, me. And who was it who got you the answers for that Spanish test? Oh, that was me as well. If you want to lecture someone about technology, try talking to somebody who you didn't beg to bump your grade up in Computer Science, alright Austin?"

His face dropped, whilst Lincoln laughed, clapping him on the back. I could have stayed like this, laughing and joking and smiling with Lincoln, sharing his memories, as though I were apart of his world, forever. But it was like I said; the world was conspiring against me. The school bell rang, piercing through our little circle. Lincoln said goodbye to me as he and his friend walked off to their classes, leaving me in a blurry stupor, wondering if what had just happened had been real, or if I had just imagined it all.

It's funny that I remember that conversation, of all the things that happened that day, and the days leading up to it. I can't remember what I wore, and I can't remember the classes I had, but I remember him, and his laugh. I specifically remember his laugh. It's one of the things I think back to when I'm feeling low.

One; the smell of my mom's lavender perfume. When I hugged her, it would cling to my clothes, and linger in my nose, and it always calmed me. I can still smell her on my hoodie now, even after three months of wandering the woods.

Two; the taste of my nana's strawberry crumble. It's ironic that though my dad couldn't stand to look at me sometimes, his mom adored me, and insisted I call her nana first time we met. She was always incredibly sweet, and would give me advice on everything from ways to look after my skin, to what kind of cars to buy. She was cool like that. Nana also always brought me my favourite dish of rich strawberry strawberry crumble whenever she would visit.

Three; the feel of Lola in my arms. If I was holding her, and she was holding me back, then I felt like I could conquer anything. She was the one constant in my life, who I never feared judgement from. She didn't look at me as anything _but_ her big sister, and it was such a nice feeling to be loved like this by someone.

Four; the view from my rooftop. Lilydale was a tiny community in Roseland, the quietest town in Chicago. On clear nights I would crawl out onto my rooftop, and just lay there, snuggled up in my hoodie. The stars were illuminated, and the scenery truly was breathtaking. You could see the infamous Chicago skyline from my little perch, and it really knew how to stun.

Five; Lincoln Campbell's laugh. Pathetic? Probably. But it never failed to bring a smile to my face.

Then I'd remember that he was more than likely dead, along with my mom, and my nana, Chicago, and maybe even Lola, though I try not to think about that. I don't know why I would think about things long gone. I guess, it's because everything is long gone. Everything I ever loved; music, film, guacamole, that great traditional Chicago pizzeria down the road from the house, football, my Camaro SS.

Now, they all belong to the past, and I belong to the unknown. I scour the woods, alone if you don't count my M16, and Lola's beloved teddy bear I rescued, searching for a way back to her. Back to my little baby sister, who was ripped from my clutches. How, I hear you ask? Well, that's a story for another day.


	4. List of Regrets

**A.N: Guys, I just got the new book,** ** _The Infinite Sea_** **, and I'm so excited to write the sequel for this.** **Thanks for the support!**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own** ** _The 5th Wave_** **, that particular gift belongs to the unbelievable Rick Yancey!**

 **Chapter Song:** ** _Spit It Out_** **by The Maccabees**

DAISY

The first thing I said to my dad when the mothership made it's debut, was "What are we doing now?"

I don't know why I thought I had to ask him. I don't know why I thought he had the answers. He was the authority, he was the man of the house - the only man in the house. He was both the chief of the house, and the chief of police. I supposed that if anyone knew what to do, it would be him.

Except he didn't. He was just as shocked, and afraid, and bewildered as I was, as mom was, as the whole damn world was. Everybody had seen the films, yet nobody knew what to expect. Were they hear to attack, or to befriend us? Were they hear for our organs, or our Reese's pieces? Were they hear for a holiday, or for good?

"I'm sure it's nothing to be worried about," dad had assured us, his eyes glued to the news report on the TV where they showed a U.S. aircraft approaching it.

It would only have been a guess, but a guess was better than being in the dark.

Then he placed his hand over mine, and it was such a fatherly move, that I wondered why I would ever doubt that he wanted me. Lola bursts into tears beside me, and crawls into my lap, dragging the teddy she affectionately named Skye. She rests her head against my chest, and lets loose what the rest of us are bottling up. I hold her tightly, and I promise to never let go. Her tiny arms snake around my waist, and I let her squeeze me as firmly as need be.

We ate our dinner in silence that night, minds clouded and hazy with indescribable thoughts, and our chests heavy with nondescript emotions. It was kind of like an outer body experience, as though I was a character I read about in a book. I could imagine us all sat there, and I know what I was thinking, yet I can't see it. I don't feel like I was actually there, instead far, far away, where aliens hadn't arrived, and we weren't all fearing the worst.

But that was the most excruciating part; it was what we pictured in our heads that made the waiting so awful. Everybody had a different opinion, a different theory, a different expectation. Families became divided over the matter, friends fell out over the issue, and neighbours were fighting in the streets over the problem. Nothing had come out of the ship yet, and already we we had turned on each other. It was ridiculous, and it was terrifying.

Slowly, but then all at once, people started to trickle out of the towns and cities, heading for the countryside. Day one of the Arrival, we had twenty-two inhabitants on our street. Day ten, we were one of four left. School was worse. Class sizes shrunk from thirty plus, to four or five in a class, if you were lucky to have a class to attend - the teachers started to drop like flies too.

Whilst some people were desperate for answers, others were desperate for normality. My headmaster was one of them. An old-fashioned man, who closely resembled the Colonel, with his platinum white moustache and bolo tie, he was hiring just about anybody if it meant Rosedale High could continue on as usual.

I remember turning up to Law on the tenth day, and seeing none other than Miles stood at the front, chalk in hand, writing his name in feeble cursive on the board. As if we didn't know who he was. He'd at least made an effort to give the impression he was capable to teach, in a pair of dark trousers, and a button up shirt, freshly ironed, with a black tie. I think he had even combed his hair.

I was among four other students who remained in the class, which made it practically impossible to hide from him. Instead, I went for the other option of completely ignoring him, refusing to look in the direction of the board, or him. He knew what I was doing, and it only made him more determined to get my attention.

"Daisy, can you come over here and show me how this computer system works?" he asks, overlooking the three students sat in the front row. I tightened my lip into a firm line, and held my ground, unmoving, and unforgiving. This was the wrong move. "Daisy Johnson, if you don't come up here now, I'll be forced to keep you behind after school."

Oh God, just the mere thought of spending ay more time with Miles then necessary was abhorrent, and so I leapt out of my seat almost immediately. The sleazy grin on his face made me feel nauseous.

Crossing my arms across my chest, I looked him dead in the eye, refusing to appear intimated or weak in his presence. If he for once second new just how afraid of him I was, then I'd never be able to escape him.

 _If you_ _'_ _re listening, you tentacled, one-eyed green monsters up in that hideous spaceship of yours, please, please please, take Miles Lydon first._

"Miles, you know how to log on to the school account," I sighed. "I would know - you showed me how to hack into it."

He sat down in his swivel chair with this sickening smugness about him, the corner of his lip upturned. "I'd like it if you'd call me Mr Lydon, please."

My fingers were twitching. The urge to punch him was all too inviting. Instead, I gritted my teeth and stood my ground. Without saying another word, for fear of it being insulting, I leant over and started typing away at his computer. The keys felt familiar, and I glided across them without hesitation. When the screen went black, as though somebody had flipped a switch, I almost didn't notice him staring at my ass.

"For a Law teacher, you don't seem all too familiar with the law prohibiting teacher-student fraternisation," I spit, standing up immediately, backing away.

Smirking, he rose out of his seat, only to tower over me, inches away from my body. His lips were level with my forehead, and I could feel his poisonous breath. It made my skin crawl.

"You mean this tie does nothing for you?" he whispered, causing goosebumps to form on the back of my neck. "You've never had that fantasy about you and a teacher, having - "

I slap him. I can't resist it any longer. He's a creep, and a snake, and he's trying to worm his way back into my life. There's already a mothership floating above our heads, I don't think I can deal with another overbearing and unwanted object looming over me.

I expect to hear a gasp from one of the other students, or some obscene comment. However, there was nothing. Strange. I turned around, only to see everybody fixated on something outside, their noses all pressed up to the window. Curious, I joined the row of onlookers, peering out of the glass pane. I watched in the reflection as Miles crept up behind me, and I held my breath. I didn't like him standing behind me like this, breathing down my neck.

"What's happening?" I asked the girl next to me, in a small voice. I coughed to clear it, refusing to let myself be diminished by Miles.

She held out her phone to me, unblinking. "Power's gone out. And look at that."

Furrowing my brow, I glanced back out the window, searching the tree line and the road, unsure of what they could all be fascinated by. She shook her head, and pointing towards the sky. I couldn't hold back my gasp.

A large 727 airplane was tumbling from ten thousand feet up in the air, excruciatingly slow. I could almost make out the faces of the people onboard, and their desperate and petrified expressions. My breath hitched in my throat, and I could hardly believe my own eyes. I was torn between doing something to help, and standing there and watching. I don't know what I'd do to help - there was nothing I could do. Who could I have possibly called that could do something to help in this situation? And anyway, I was frozen still, my eyes feeling as though they were held open by toothpicks.

When the plane finally crashed, the explosion was breath-taking. The fire was larger than any bonfire I'd ever seen, and it seemed to engulf the entire street, across the school. I could feel the heat, even through the double-glazing. The disaster demolished six houses, and I later discovered that two had been occupied at the time. The MacAleavy's, a young couple with a newborn baby, and The Foster's, an elderly couple, had not survived the blast, and I'm assured did not feel anything.

Cars swerved, and crashed too, and few drivers were actually thrown from their vehicles due to the nature of the collision. There was so much death just on the little strip of road we could see from this one classroom - how much death could the other classes see? How much death were other onlookers exposed to?

We were all ushered into the gymnasium by the teachers, were we had to sit on the bleachers and await our parents. I walked in through the doors, and looked around. Scouring the sea, though it wasn't really a sea, more like a pond, of faces belonging to pupils of all ages, I was determined to find Jemma. Her parents had kept her in Roseland. They believed the aliens to be peaceful. They were also atheists, and both research scientists, and avid alien film enthusiasts, owning every film in the _Alien_ franchise. Even the god awful _Prometheus_.

I found her, when she waved over to me, spotting me before I saw her. I hurried over to her, and we hugged, as it seemed like the best thing to do. I wish I had never let go.

"Nothing is working Daisy," she told me, panic dripping off of her every syllable. "They've shut off everything."

"They?" I ask foolishly.

"The _Others,_ " she mutters, as though they were sat beside us.

Our hands found each other's in the dim light of the school gymnasium. Clinging on to one another as though we were afraid we would fall apart if we couldn't hold on. Her body started to shake, and I could just make out little whimpers. I let her bury her face into the crook of my neck, and immediately it was damp. Glancing around, I saw she wasn't the only one crying.

"Daisy, I've been thinking," Jemma began, sniffing slightly, lifting her head off of my shoulder. "About all the things I've been too afraid to do, and now probably won't ever get to do. I haven't even . . . _you know."_

She blushes at the mere mention of _you-know-what_ , and looks down at her hands tangled with mine. I smile softly at her.

"What about you?" she asks me.

"Awful experience. It was on his backseat, and I think _Nickelback_ was playing. It lasted like forty five seconds, hurt a lot, and I didn't even - "

"No, no, no!" she hissed, cringing, shaking her head and screwing her eyes shut. I couldn't help but chuckle at her reaction. "I meant, what do you regret? God, it's the end of the world, and all you can talk about is _you-know-what_!"

"Oh, right," I nod, still laughing. "Well, I regret never downloading that new Rihanna album."

Jemma slapped my knee, and though it took me by surprise, as it was very out-of-character for her, it was soft, and I could see her struggling to keep a straight face. "For Heaven's sake Daisy! Please, just be serious, for once in your life!"

I placed my hand over hers, and grazed my fingertip over her knuckles. I watched with a heavy heart as a tear rolled down her cheek, and splashed down into her lap.

"I regret a lot of things. I'm always going to wish I could find my birth mother, or know who she is. I regret not saying goodbye to my birth father," I admit, in a shaky voice. Jemma looks up at me, her mouth hung open, sadness swimming in her eyes. Clearly she didn't expect me to be so open, or answer properly.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, squeezing my hand reassuringly. I wave it off, holding my own tears back.

"You're not the one who abandoned me," I told her, my lip quivering. "You didn't put me up for adoption."

We sat in silence for a while longer, just holding on to one another. Jemma was one of life's genuinely good people. She was pure, and warm, and gentle, and didn't deserve anything the Arrival threw at her. After a while, when our tears had dried, we grasped at anything that we knew was going to lighten the mood.

"I saw Lincoln this morning," Jemma said, with a slight smirk. "And it made me realise that with everything that's going on, and what will happen, you need to tell him."

"Tell him what?" I knew exactly what she meant; I was just buying time.

"How you feel! How you've felt since fourth grade!"

I shake my head. "This is a joke right?"

"I'm 100 percent serious! Look he's down there right now, by himself. You should go sit next to him, look deep into his eyes, and just pour your heart and soul into telling him how much you're in love with him. Or, you could kiss him. I heard that's just as effective."

"Jeez girl, you've been watching far too much _One Tree Hill_ ," I say, my heart racing at the mere thought of my lips on his. "That kind of thing only happens on screen."

"Yeah, completely unrealistic, not like what's happening right now."

God, why does she have to be right all the time?

"And say what? _Hey, I know that you_ _'_ _ve probably got a lot on your mind with the whole end of the world thing, but I just thought I should tell you that you're really hot, and I_ _'_ _m completely head over heels for you_. I can't, I won't!"

And I never got to.

Dad turned up literally a second later, and waved at me from the doorway, casually, as if he came to pick me up everyday after alien attacks. I turned to Jemma, and we hugged, though I was brutally aware of how tight and long we embraced for. I tried to breathe her in, remembering everything about her from the way that tiny piece of wispy hair that hung loose from her ponytail brushed my temple, or the soft cotton feel of her cardigan, and the distinct detergent scent that clung to the fabric. All of this swarmed my senses, whilst I also tried to remain positive that I was going to see her soon. Tomorrow even.

We pulled away, and looked each other in the others. I was sure hers, which were brimming with tears and despair, reflected my own glassy orbs. Her peachy lips parted, and I knew what she was going to say.

"Don't," I warned her, gripping her arms as if I feared I was going to topple to the floor. "Don't say goodbye. This isn't goodbye, okay? We'll see each other again, I know we will. I'll call you when the phones start working again, yeah? Please, don't say goodbye. I won't be able to handle it."

She just nodded, afraid that whatever she said next was going to end in a sob. I gave her a smile, which soon cracked, and became flooded by tears streaming down my face. I scooped up my backpack, and stepped down from the bleachers, making my way over to my dad, who had a bittersweet, thin-lipped smile on his face, that he hoped would cheer me up. It didn't.

I turned to wave to Jemma, who stiffly waved back. I spotted Lincoln sat on the bottom step, alone, his head in his hands. He looked deep in thought, and I used this as my excuse not to approach him. Then, as if he could feel my eyes on him, he glanced over in my direction. I'll never know if he smiled at me or not, as I swivelled around immediately, and left the school gymnasium, cheeks flushed. It's funny - I just witnessed a plane crash, an explosion, and multiple car crashes, and I was still worried about what Lincoln Campbell thought about me.

"Is he a friend of yours?" dad asked me, trying to still repair our unsteady relationship after _that_ argument, which now now felt like decades ago.

I smile sadly, and shook my head. "He's in that awkward category of 'smiles in the corridor' yet still 'mispronounces my name horribly'."

Dad chuckled, and looped an arm around my shoulder. "Then he's missing out, kiddo." _Kiddo._ He hadn't called me that since I was, well, a kid. It was strange, and heartwarming all at the same time.

We began the long walk home, as dad explained that the car wasn't working. No surprise there. The mile and half it took to walk to our little corner of town, called Lilydale, was the longest mile and a half I've ever journeyed. The streets were peppered with stalled-out cars, and trucks, and buses, wrecks littering every block, cars folded around light poles and sticking out of buildings. Tiny fires dotted the roads, and were only going to grow bigger, with oil dripping from every single broken vehicle in sight. I suggested we do something, call the authorities. Dad was quick to remind me we had nothing to call them with, and they have no way of getting here.

Later, figures were released by word of mouth, and it turns out that an electromagnetic pulse had hit the entire planet, pulling the plug quite literally on every possible electric object invented. Cars, phones, computers. Heaters, lights, radios. Lifts, automatic doors, alarms. Planes, fighter jets, helicopters. Everything was rendered useless, and everything in the sky just fell. Apparently, tens of thousands of people had died, whether they were trapped in their cars when the automatic locks on their doors didn't work, or they were in the planes that fell. Car crashes killed a lot of people too, as did explosions.

Later, this became to be known as the 1st Wave. And these deaths, were to be the first of many, many more.

I should have said goodbye to Jemma. The next day her family were one of a few that left town in a feeble attempt to escape the trauma of the attacks. I guess it must have been pretty sudden, and that she didn't get a say in the matter. I never saw her again.

I should have told Lincoln how I felt. I know that his parents died pretty quickly, and last I heard he and his sister were alone. I never saw him again either.

I'll just add those to the ever-expanding list of regrets I have.

They're both probably dead now.


	5. Ninety-Seven

**A.N: Hope you enjoy this next chapter! Warning: this chapter is not for the faint-hearted. Topics raised in this chapter have not been romanticised, and are not written as a mere plot device. The events all contribute to who Daisy becomes, and what she fights to overcome. If you are offended, than I ask you raise the problem with me in the PM's.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own** ** _The 5th Wave_** **, that privilege goes to the fantastical Rick Yancey.**

 **Chapter Song:** ** _Smoke and Mirrors_** **by Imagine Dragons.**

DAISY

The 1st Wave killed not tens of thousands as we had first thought, but half a million people.

The 2nd Wave put that number to shame.

In case you weren't aware, we live on a restless planet. The continents sit on slabs of rock, called tectonic plates, and these plates float on a sea of molten lava. They're constantly scraping and rubbing and grating against one another, creating enormous pockets of pressure. Over time the pressure rises and rises, until the plates slip, releasing these huge amounts of energy in the form of earthquakes. If one of those quakes happens along one of the fault lines that circle every continent, the shock wave produces a supernova called a tsunami.

Around forty-four percent of the world's population lives within sixty miles of a coastline. That's three billion people.

All the Others had to do was shift a few rocks.

Bye bye, California. Bye bye, Florida. Bye bye, New York. Washington, Sydney, Alaska, London, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Rio, Rome; hope you enjoyed your run.

Half a million people died in the 1st Wave, which was over in the blink of an eye. As an estimate, the entire coastal population had been eradicated - remember that's three billion people. If you add this number to the amount of people who died in the earthquakes, and in the fires and floods that followed, then supposedly four billion people were exterminated within the day the 2nd Wave hit.

We were lucky living in a small town like Lilydale, in Rosaland. Others, not so much. After the initial quake hit, I watched the aftermath from my favourite spot on the rooftop, I sat wrapped in a blanket, with Lola curled up in my lap. Chicago, one of my favourite places in the world, was crumbling before my very eyes. The ash and smoke from the fires cast a melancholy, grey curtain over the city. Skyscrapers tumbled, almost as if they were in slow motion. Thanks to the silence the power cut now brought, the screams were audible, even miles away, and they echoed eerily. Lola pressed her face into my chest, eyes screwed shut, hands covering her ears, as she refused to believe what was happening. I held her tightly, kissing the top of her head.

"When will it all be over?" Lola whimpered. I could feel her trembling, her tears soaking my shirt.

I wanted to tell her we'll be alright. I wanted to tell her that everything will be back to normal soon. I wanted to tell her it was all just a bad dream.

But I couldn't lie to her. And I couldn't disappoint her.

"You'll be safe, lollypop, I promise," I instead said, thinking that this was easier to hear than what she wanted to know. However, it wasn't. This now meant I had to keep that promise. I had to keep her safe, I had to keep her alive. I don't think I'm strong enough for that.

The 3rd Wave made that all too impossible.

It took a little longer than the two beforehand - around twelve weeks? And this wiped out ninety-nine percent of the remaining population. Ninety-one percent of the last three and a half billion? Well, you do the math.

It came in the form of an unconventional avian bird flu, and somehow the Others had managed to infect every single bird on the planet. Apparently, there are seventy-five birds to every one human. That would be like turning a corner, and having seventy-five vigilantes waiting for you, each armed with knives and ammunition. Dad reckons that they must have genetically altered something like the Ebola virus, and made it a thousand times more deadly. You see, Ebola isn't airborne. But change a single protein, and you can make it do anything you want. The virus latches on to your lungs, and sits there, like a parasite, slowly but surely draining your life from right under your nose. Headaches are the first symptom, manageable in the beginning, but grows excruciating the longer you're alive. Then, you start to spit up little droplets of virus-laden blood. Those little droplets turn to buckets when you're reaching the end. The bug then squirms it's way into your liver, your kidneys, and then your brain. Now, you're a viral bomb. When you explode, you blast everyone around you with the virus, like shrapnel. They call it bleeding out. Like rats fleeing a sinking ship, the virus erupts out of _every_ opening. You literally cry tears of blood.

People had different names for it, just like people had different names for the aliens. In our community, we preferred to call it The Pestilence, or The Fourth Horseman. Whatever people called it, after just three months, everybody infected was dead. Ninety-seven out of every hundred people, gone.

Mom insisted on volunteering. Volunteering with the elderly, the young, the dying, the injured, the _infected_. As me and Lola and dad had all survived this long without so much as a sniffle, we believed that there was something in our genes that made us all immune. Uncommon and extremely rare, but not unheard of. And considering mom had been helping the sick out for weeks, we'd assumed she was fine too.

We were all together on her last day. We'd brought out the Monopoly, and dad had found some cans of lemonade at the bottom of the now lukewarm freezer in the basement. It was nice, in a tragically morbid way. We were laughing again, and there were times when I would forget what was happening, until blood would start to spew out of mom's throat, and eyes, and we would have to mop the mess off of the board.

That night we were allowed to say goodbye to her, as she was certain she wasn't going to wake up in the morning. Lola had cried her little eyes out, as she didn't understand quite what was happening. I had to prize Lola off of mom, part out of fear she would contract the virus, part out of fear of my heart breaking. Then, I came to hug her, and I found that letting her go, both figuratively and literally, was near impossible. In my arms I held the shell of the woman who had given me a chance when all others had turned me away, and had loved me when no others could. It was to her I owed my life, and it was her life I now watched drain away.

"Never stop fighting for love," she had whispered in my ear, and those were the last words she would ever utter to me.

In the early hours of the morning, Lola and I awoke to mom's bloodcurdling screams. I had let Lola share my bed in recent weeks, and she clung tighter to me then than she ever had. I tried to block out the cries for her, but that meant I would have to listen. I heard her wail and holler, awful painstakingly. I knew that this was the worst bit, the part when the virus has complete control over everything, and is looking for a way out. It drives the host insane with agony, and sufferers have been known to turn on those around them. I suspect that's what's happening now, mom struggling against dad. However horrible it was for me to listen to, it must have been ten times worse for him, and a hundred times worse for her.

We buried her in the garden the next morning.

Dad made me swear I would stay in and look after Lola. He still had a duty as town sheriff, even though there was barely a town left to run. Thanks to the limited resources, and the daily deaths, people just didn't know what to do with themselves anymore. They looted the empty houses, and took what they wanted - quite literally.

I remember one day, though try as I might I wish I couldn't, when I was bathing Lola with some rainwater we had collected. It was cold, and she was shivering, but she was also filthy, and I worried that she would pick up some nasty disease before she dies of hypothermia. Dad had insisted we remain in darkness, with no candlelight, and he'd boarded up the windows when some punks had thrown rocks at them a couple of days before. It was such an ominous atmosphere, I found that me and Lola would giggle to lighten the mood. I was dressed in my nightgown, sat on a towel on the floor of the bathroom, leaning over the side of the bathtub. I'd found the old rubber ducks, and I was playing with Lola, in an attempt to keep her mind off of the awful gunshots that were ringing just down the road.

I spotted her ribcage in the shimmering water, and I gulped. She was starving. I was starving too, but I'd had seventeen years to grow. Lola needs the nutrition more than I do. I gently got her out of the bath, and wrapped several towels around her skinny frame. I lead her into her room, where her _Frozen_ pyjamas awaited her. I dressed her, and told her to wait for me to come back up. I kissed both cheeks, and her nose, and her forehead, until she was giggling. I smiled warmly at her. Suddenly, we both jumped as we heard the sound of the hammer falling; _bam, bam, BAM!_ I ushered Lola under the covers of her bed, and kissed her again.

"Whatever you hear, you just stay put, okay lollypop?" I told her, in an urgent whisper. "I'm sure they'll go away soon."

I handed her Skye, her treasured stuffed bear, and tried my best to give her a reassuring smile. Then, I raised a finger to my lips, and left the room. Treading carefully, my heart in my mouth, I descended the stairs. As I stood there, watching as the door shook, threateningly, I reached behind the bookshelf for the gun dad had left me in emergencies. It was a small Colt M1911 pistol, and nothing like the M16 I use today. I had yet to fire it, and my shaking hand only proved this.

Stepping forward slowly, I raised it, anxiously. I was ready for when they burst through - or at least I thought I was. When the door swung open, the three men were on me before I could even scream, the pistol thrown to the floor. One of them was laughing as he held me from behind, his calloused hand keeping my mouth firmly shut.

"This one's a little firecracker," he jested, and I was certain I recognised his voice. I struggled un his grip, kicking out, shrieking into his palm, yet this only made them laugh harder. "Is this the bitch who ignored you in class, Quinn?"

My eyes shot open, when I realised I knew one of the intruders, who now stood across from me, a hood casting a shadow over his face. Ian Quinn, one of the boys in my year. I remember he was particularly arrogant, and considerably rich, which led him to believe he owned anyone and anything. He'd tried to get me to go out with him a few times, but I didn't care for him or his money. Little did I know he could hold a grudge like nobody's business.

Pulling his hood down, I was truly terrified by the malicious glint he held in his eyes. He nodded, and licked his lips. He reached out, and played with the fabric belt on my dressing gown. Widening my eyes, I threw my leg out, and kicked him hard in the ribs. He doubled over, and struggled to regain his breath. However, when he managed to get to his feet again, he didn't hesitate to hit me hard across my temple with the but of his own pistol, as his friend let me go. I slid to the floor, hot tears threatening to spill from my eyes.

Quinn was upon me in a second, his hand at my throat, and his lips by my ear. His breath sent a distressed shiver down my spine, making all the hairs on my neck stand on edge.

"I asked you out four times, and every single time you turned me down, giving me the same bullshit reply; 'I'm not interested in anybody at the moment'," he hissed in my ear. "Well, I knew about Lincoln Campbell. I knew about your pathetic little crush on him."

I wriggled and fought under the strain of his body, but he was much stronger, and I was petrified. When his hand startled to slide up my thigh, I was paralysed.

"I'm going to make you regret ever making a fool of me, Daisy," he seethed, savagely.

His lips came down hard on mine, and he threw open my dressing gown, exposing me to the three of them. I rasped out for him to stop, desperately pulling at the fabric to cover myself back up. The tears were flowing now, as their laughs and his heavy breathing filled my ears. I screwed my eyes shut, and hit Quinn has hard as I could with my fists, over and over. He caught them though, as easily as if he was catching a football, and pinned them above me. I was stuck, restrained under Quinn, my bare body being gawked at by the others. I was sobbing, and screaming, and I was willing for it to be over as quickly as it had begun.

I don't remember hearing the gunshots that killed the boys, or even noticing that another figure appeared in the doorway. I just recall the weight lifted off of my chest as Quinn rolled off of me, blood seeping from the multiple holes in his torso, dripping onto my body.

Dad rushed to my side, and I saw that he was crying. He picked me up in his arms, covering my modesty, and rushed me up the stairs. I was drifting in and out of consciousness, the previous blow to my head now in full effect. Blood coated the left side of my face, temporarily blurring my vision, whilst blood was smeared across my body, and between my legs. Lola stood waiting for us on the landing, clutching Skye, though I can't remember her expression.

The cold water brought me to my sense immediately, my eyes flying open. I clutched my knees to my body, tears streaming down my bloodstained face. Dad held my head to his chest, and I heard him sob. He apologised over and over for not being there soon enough, to which I merely answered with "you weren't there when it mattered".

He soon left to discard of the bodies before mom or Lola saw, leaving me to relieve the incident over and over in my mind. I had been so scared. Quinn hadn't been _in_ there long enough, so I knew there was no risk of anything, but it was more to do with the fact he was _in_ there at all.

I had washed my skin clean, though I didn't feel clean, not really, and climbed out of the bath. The water had tinged a salmony pink colour. I wrapped a towel around my body, and reached out of the door, where I felt for the clothes dad had left for me. A pair of black jeans and a green knit sweater. A bra and pants. After I'd dressed, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. I wasn't nearly covered up enough.

I made my way down the stairs, where I found that dad had packed me and Lola a bag each, along with his own too. He had his arms folded, and was staring at a photo album he had in his hands. He seemed a million miles away. I reached out and touched his forearm, and he snapped out of his stupor, and looked up at me. Immediately his eyes clouded over with guilt, and his lip quivered. I glanced at the page he was looking at, and it was a picture of me signing my adoption certificate, when I was nine years old, with a huge grin on my face and a red bow in my hair.

"You were so little when you came to us, I could barely believe you were a whole nine years old," he said, sadly. "You were so little, and so perfect. I vowed to never let you slip through the cracks again."

And just when I was so sure I was going to break in half, he broke. I held him in my arms, and let him sob. Let him unleash everything. I thought I needed him most, but really, it was him who needed me, this whole time. This was when I realised that no matter what happened to me, whether it was abandonment, adoption, abuse, or alien attacks, I was always going to make it out, stronger than I was beforehand. Sure the bruises would last for a while, and the memory even longer, but my grief and fear - they would be the first to disappear.

As he pulled away, he explained that we were going to a shelter he had heard about, a few miles away from town, as it was safer there then here. He showed me what he had packed for me, which consisted of some extra pairs of underwear, a box of matches, a toothbrush with some toothpaste, tampons, gloves, extra pairs of socks, and my journals. He asked if there was anything else I needed. I nodded, and climbed the stairs again. Whilst on the landing I heard Lola talking to somebody, and peeking through the gap in her door, I noticed it was her teddy. She had sat Skye down, and she was telling her that they were going on an adventure, and she needed to help her pack. I smiled.

I slipped into my room, and looked around. You always think you know how you'd prepare for these sort of things, but you never do. Not when the time comes to choose a mere few objects from a room filled with memories. Every item held sentiment and I felt awful leaving a single stuffed animal, or a single book. Instead, I found that photographs was the best way forward. Some of my favourites made the cut; one of me and Lola taken a few weeks before the Arrival, another of me and Jemma on her birthday, sitting on the bonnet of my Camaro SS, another of me with mom and dad, and my butterfly cake. Lastly, I tore one from a page in my yearbook. A picture of Lincoln Campbell, stood in his football uniform, with the widest and most charming smile on his face.

I carefully took them down with me and placed them in the front pocket of my backpack. I slid my hoodie on, and realised that it felt heavier than normal. I slid my hands into the pockets, where I pulled out two objects of curiosity. The Colt M1911, and mom's wedding ring attached to a silver chain. I put the chain around my neck, and slid the gun back into my pocket, with a steely confidence that certainly wasn't there this morning.

Lola followed me down the stairs, and took my hand. Dad led the way out of the door, and together, the three of us, all walked down the road, towards uncertainty.


	6. Camp Ashpit

**A.N: Hope you enjoy! Please review, I appreciate all the comments!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own The 5th Wave at all.**

 **Chapter Song: Safe and Sound by The Civil Wars ft. Taylor Swift.**

DAISY

The 'shelter' dad had heard about was in fact a refugee camp appropriately names Camp Ashpit, in the woods, where the survivors from Chicago, and other towns dotted around all convened. There were fifty or so others in there, yet ours was the only family. Everybody else was either an orphan, or a widow, a widower. The eldest were a few men and women in their early sixties. Lola, the five year old, was the youngest, but there were six other children, none older than fourteen besides me.

Camp Ahpit lay about twenty miles away from our house, and lay deep in the heart of the forest. Apparently the small clearing we now stayed in was erected for a field hospital when the closest town had reached it's full capacity. The tiny sheds, for lack of a better word, had been built out of salvaged tin and carved limber. There was one main ward for the infected, and a smaller shack where doctors tended to the dying. There was also a system that captured rainwater, for washing, drinking and bathing.

We ate and slept in the big building, along with the other children. Dad had to share a space with the other leaders of camp, which he had temporarily taken the position of too, when they discovered he had been a sheriff. In our bunk, I had watched five other bleed out. I had helped burn the cots they slept in and bleach the walls and floors. On hot days, you could still smell the faint metallic aroma.

I hated Camp Ashpit, I really did. All around us men walked, armed to the teeth, ladened down with shotguns, pistols, semiautomatics, even a couple of flare guns. I received odd stares from these men, a mixture of lust and loathing. Here I was, the seventeen year old girl with all my limbs and not a single dosage of the virus in me, guarded fiercely by her father, who would fight to the ends of the earth for his daughters, desperate to never see either one in pain again.

Mostly I worried about Lola. I didn't like the idea of all these weapons around her, the threat inevitable. And then there was the shallow pit that had been dug a few hundred yards away, behind the compound. The pit was for burning bodies. The stench was repulsive.

Dad had heard about the camp from a couple of buddies at work, who had planned out their trek down here. Sadly, none of them were here to greet us. The unofficial boss of this place was an ex-Air Force colonel, called Glenn Talbot. He had a ridiculous hair cut, and insisted on wearing the same camo pants everyday, stained with something that might have been blood, though his black boots always sported a mirror finish. He liked his guns, a lot. He had two on his hip, one tucked behind his back, and another slung over his shoulder. No one carrie more guns than Talbot. Maybe this had something to do with him becoming the unofficial boss.

That was, however, until my dad turned up. There's something people respect more than a gun, and that's a badge.

Sentries had spotted us as we made our way up the dusty track towards camp, and when we reached the rickety make-shift gates, we were greeted by Talbot and another guy who looked like a walking mountain. Talbot ordered us to split up - he was to talk to dad, whilst me and Lola went for a check-up in the infirmary.

I'd just lost one parent, I wasn't too keen on losing another.

"We stay together," I told Talbot, steely-faced.

"Daisy, it's alright, you'll be fine " dad tried, seemingly exasperated. Many a time he's been on the receiving end of my fury, so he knew just how far I was willing to fight for what I want.

"That's right, little girl, you listen to your daddy," Talbot mocked, his eyes glinting rancorously.

I stepped closer to him, and furrowed my eyebrows. I hoisted Lola up in my arms, and balanced her on my hipbone, protectively. "If any of your men lay a finger on either one of us, I promise you this little girl is going to cut them off and shove them up your - "

Before I could say another word, dad kissed both of us and told us he'd see us soon. Very soon. Talbot was laughing, though this time it wasn't condescending. I turned to the guy he had entrusted with taking us to the infirmary. It was the dark-skinned, mound of muscles.

"So what do they call you?" I asked him, as Lola, who I still clung onto, played with Skye, making her hop around my arm. I got no reply from him, as he continued to lead us through camp. People glanced up to inspect the newcomers - we received a few piteous looks, but otherwise we were just like everybody else. Except we had each other.

"Let me guess, Poundcake? No wait, Creed. Or Knucklesandwich?"

"Poundcake, now that's a new one," he finally said, still his lips in a thing line. His voice was unsurprisingly deep, yet there was a certain warmth to it that I hadn't heard in a while. "I'm Mack."

"Ah, because _The Rock_ was taken?" I joke, which earns a slight grin from him.

"I know that you're Daisy, so what's this little one called?" he inquires, reaching out to tap Lola on the nose, delicately. She giggles, which makes him giggle again.

"This little ladybug is Lola," I tell him, smiling at her.

I glance back over at Mack, and I can see him slowly trying to piece the puzzle together. I resist the urge to burst into tears, or shoot something, or both at the same time. _How come one of them looks Asian, and the other one isn_ _'_ _t? They can_ _'_ _t really be related._ Ugh, it was frustrating. Mind-numbingly frustrating. I _was_ Lola's sister, and blood meant nothing.

Mack shows us the larger of the two hospital buildings, where a nurse ushered us into a tiny outpost. Apparently she just needed to make sure we weren't infected, or injured in any way. I insisted she look at Lola first. I stood with my back to the wall, watching closely. The nurse was incredibly kind, and made Lola feel very comfortable. She even did that funny knee-tap thing with a little plastic hammer she had in her kit, which made Lola burst into a fit of giggles. I chuckled, and turned to see Mack doing the same. He met my gaze, and knew in that instant not to ask about why we looked so distinctly different. It wasn't exactly rocket science anyway.

The nurse gestured me over, and assured me Lola was in perfect health. I breathed a sigh of relief I didn't know I was holding in, and gave Lola a joyous hug. Then I handed her over to Mack, who seemed completely lost when it came to little people. I also needed to distract him.

As the nurse took my temperature, and measured my heart rate, I leaned in close and whispered something private to her. She retracted, and paused, looking at me with a sombre expression. I worried that she was going to scold me, and deny me my request, however she soon opened one of the bags she had stored on one of the makeshift shelves, and brought out that distinct pale blue box. She handed it over discretely to me, and made sure I knew the instructions.

"Not that I'm judging sweetie, but do you really think that the apocalypse is the right time to start having sex?" she asked me, softly. It was meant as an almost motherly piece of advice, but I couldn't help thinking that this lady doesn't know me.

"You're right," I sighed, sarcastically. "I'll be sure to remind the next guy who rapes me."

Her mouth flew open, and the colour drained from her wrinkled face. She reached out a warm hand to caress my cheek, and I was shocked by how much I'd missed a touch like this.

A few minutes later, it was confirmed I was virus free, and fortunately not pregnant. I thanked her for her help, and took Lola from a rather bemused looking Mack. Lola was finishing the story of how she came to rescue a fallen squirrel, when Mack took us to our bunk. The sun was setting, and Lola looked completely bushwhacked, after the long two day journey we made. I tucked her into her little bed, and kissed both her forehead and Skye's. I turned to say goodbye to Mack, when I saw the odd look he had on his face.

"What?" I asked him.

"Is that true?" he replied, answering a question with another question.

"The squirrel story? One hundred percent accurate. It was called Sneeps. She even kept Sneeps in the closet in her bedroom. She thinks he left to join his family, but dad had to release him when the council found out. Did you know it's illegal to keep squirrel's in Illinois?"

"No, about you," he explained. "About . . . the rape?"

I gritted my teeth, and straightened up. I couldn't look Mack in the eyes. "There are some sick bastards out there," was all I could say. "The Arrival didn't put it there, the Arrival raised it out of them."

Dad returned not long after, as people started to spill into the bunk. He kissed Lola goodnight, Skye too, and filled me in on his conversation with Talbot. Apparently, anybody under eighteen cannot carry firearms, so if I'm to keep my pistol, I'll have to hide it. Also, Talbot warned him that if we want to stay at camp, I'll have to reign myself in.

"If he's going be a dick to me," I say, on the defensive. "Then I'm going to bite back."

Dad sighed. "These people are going to keep us safe, Daisy, please remember that next time you threaten to cut someone's finger off."

I can tell that he's trying really hard to conceal the grin that was slowly creeping onto his face, when he said the last words.

"Love you petal," he tells me before he departs. I watch his retreating figure, then crawl into my bed next to Lola's. She's already sound asleep, and it's her steady breathing that helps me to drift off.

We remain here for the next few weeks, moderately peaceful. Occasionally I'll spot Talbot and the pair of us will stare each other down, but otherwise I keep my nose out of places where it 'doesn't belong', and occupy myself with caring for Lola. She's at that age where she's desperate to explore, and will do something if she sees another kid do it. Great for experience, not for the apocalypse. Four times I've had to run after her as she happily follows some of the older kids down to the pit where all the burnt bodies are kept.

In good weather everyone stayed outside, returning only to our bunks at night. Those shacks had a bad vibe to them, because of what happened inside. At night the stench of blood, and the ash from the pit that burns all night long, worms it's way up my nose, poisoning my dreams with images of death, and the dead. Mom featured very heavily, sometimes she was who she used to be, with a beautiful smile and soft eyes and warm touch, and other times she was who she is now, with her lips hanging open and dead eyes and ice cold touch.

Some nights the mood around Camp Ashpit was optimistic, with people swearing up and down that they heard the sound of a helicopter whirring in the distance. Other times, more often than not, the mood was angsty, and tense, everybody wishing for things they couldn't have and feeling sorry for themselves.

We were the lucky ones, yet we weren't. We'd survived the power cut, yet we hadn't, because what are we really without running water and lights. We're no better than the Neanderthals we evolved from, and now reverted back to being. We'd survived the natural disasters, yet we hadn't, because they had torn everything away from us. Our homes, our families, our friends. They say home is where the heart is, and that is true for some people who's home now lies in rubble and ruin, scattered across the land. We'd survived the virus, yet we hadn't, because now we were no bigger than a drop in the ocean, and that thought is considerably worse than death.

We'd survived this long, only to wish we were all dead. The lucky ones were us, and they weren't us. The dead were the fortunate, and the unfortunate. We were like the Japanese who had survived the Hiroshima bomb, emerging to the surface only to wonder why we were still here, unsure if we wanted to be.

Some people wanted daily reminders of their past lives. They wanted discussions, and debates. I wanted to let the dead stay dead, and privately mourn my mother, and Jemma, and Lincoln. I didn't want to admit that I wish they were all still alive, because then that makes going on impossible. Who wants to live on a barren planet? Who wants to live without those they love? Talking about the problem had replaced actually doing something about it.

One month to the day we had arrived at camp, we were visited by people far more important than a small town sheriff and his two daughters. The Air Force were greeted with open arms, cheers, and a recital of the National anthem. Talbot saluted the men as they climbed off of their trucks, and I swear I saw a tear of joy slide down his calloused cheek.

Dad turned to me, grinning. "Ready to be rescued, petal?"

I'd beamed up at him, and turned to Lola, who was jumping up and down excitedly, her tiny hand in mine. "The Army are here, the Army are here!" she cheered, and she looked so happy that I didn't have the heart to tell her she had the wrong military. Fortunately, somebody else did.

"We're the Air Force, young lady, and we're here to help you," spoke the deep voice of one of the soldiers as he walked over to us. The sun glinted in my eyes and I looked over at him, and I had to squint to read the name on his fatigues; Garrett. A good, solid American name.

That's when the buses pulled up. They were blindingly yellow, the familiar school buses no doubt all of us had travelled on before. Nobody had expected that. It was so abnormally _normal._ We were all left dumbfounded, wondering where the freaking school was. They were packed with kids, and that's when I understood. When dad understood.

The soldiers weren't here for all of us, just the kids. _We_ _'_ _re here_ _'_ _s to help you_ , meaning Lola, and me, but not our dad. There were no adults on the buses, unless you count the guys in uniform.

"They're not splitting us up," I told dad, assertively. "Not now. Not ever."

"Of course not." He marched away, into the bunks, and came out again with mine and Lola's backpacks. He didn't understand.

"I'm not leaving you," I tried again, this time with more urgency.

"Darling, I'm sorry but we can't allow the adults to come with us," Garrett pointed out from behind me, as though I didn't already know. I balled my fists up, digging my nails into my palms. I refused to take the bag from his outstretched hand.

"They have to get the most vulnerable to safety, okay Daisy? I'll only be a few hours behind - "

"Then we can wait."

Dad shook his head, smiling, and placed his other hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off. Why is he smiling? This isn't a good thing, they're trying to separate us. Why is he insistent on leaving us? Why is he happy about it? Paranoia was taking control, and I tried to calm myself. I couldn't put into words how desperately I needed him to stay with us. It felt like hot coals in my stomach. If he split us up, then I can't help but shake the feeling that that will be the end of our family. That if we got on that bus, we'd never see him again. Maybe I wasn't being rational, but the world we live in wasn't rational anymore.

Lola, bless her, seemed to be excited about going on an adventure, something she had been itching to do. I tried to look at it from her point of view, as I hugged my dad goodbye, and climbed aboard the bus. Scouring the faces of the other children the Air Force had rounded up, I realised I was among a small handful of older kids again. All their tiny eyes bore into mine as I lead Lola to an empty seat at the back of the bus. I tried hard not to meet any of their stares, noticing with a heavy heart that they were all alone. I also thought I saw a familiar head of honey-coloured hair, but I was too preoccupied to care.

I sat Lola down, and took the bag off of her bag. She started to shriek, and I crouched down so we were eye-level, to ask what was wrong. Tears spilled out of her tiny doe eyes, and she held onto my arms with tremendous strength for a five year old.

"Skye! I left Skye!" she wailed. People were starting to look, and I was determined to calm Lola down. If she cries, I cry, and I was already so close to breaking down.

"Where is it lollypop?" I ask her, in a soothing tone.

"In the bed!" she answered, her bottom lip trembling. "Daisy, you have to go back! I can't possibly live without Skye!"

She jumps up, and tries her hardest to wriggle past me. I get her to sit back down, and kiss her forehead. "I'll be back with Skye in two minutes, okay lollypop? You just stay here, and I promise I'll be back."

"Don't leave me here alone," she told me, in a wobbly voice. I felt my heart break.

"I'll never let go."

I jumped off of the bus, and began weaving through all the people and the obstacles, sprinting into our bunk. I searched the now empty beds, the dim light making it almost impossible. Then I spotted Skye's distinct floppy ear peeking out from under the wooden bed, and I scoop her up, just as I hear the roar of an engine come to life. Cursing under my breath, I make my way back out of the bunk, only to watch as the buses start to pull away. I pick up the pace, and tear after the vehicles, screaming and calling out for them to stop, tears blurring my vision and flooding my mouth.

But I'm too late.

The last image of Lola I have is of her tiny face pressed up against the smudged glass, pounding the back window of the bus, sobbing, crying out my name.


	7. The Last Remnants

**A.N: Sorry for the late update, I just have been so busy with school at** **the moment. Hope you enjoy the new chapter, I know it's short, but that just means the next one will be here quicker!**

 **Chapter Song: _Bleeding Out_ by Imagine Dragons**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own The 5th Wave.**

 **DAISY**

The last remnants of my family disappeared the day the buses arrived.

I had been too slow in getting back to Lola, and now she was alone. I'd chased her, but couldn't make it. I collapsed to the ground, the rolling dust cloud enveloping me. The tears flowed, the sobs came out gargled and strangled, my throat sore from calling her name out over, and over.

I must have laid there for a good couple of minutes, for when I emerged from my little bubble, everybody had vanished. I looked around, though my vision was blurred a little, dazed. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, and I clutched my - _Lola_ _'_ _s_ \- teddy to my chest. Walking around, I found that everybody had deserted their tents and their stations, to all congregate inside the big building. I could hear them all, shuffling around, and the booming voice of John Garrett echoing through the clearing.

Pulling myself together the best that I could, I approached the building. As I did so, it became clear to me that things weren't alright. People were shouting, and shoving each other. I could see through the open doorway the alarmed expressions of those trapped inside.

I caught dad's eye, as I frantically waved to him. He mouthed Lola's name, and I shook my head, sadly. Grimly, he held out a hand, to stop me from getting any closer. As he did so, the gunshots began.

In front of my very eyes I saw as a bullet shot through dad's palm, causing him to fall to the floor. The screams rose, bloodcurdling, as the soldiers we thought were here to protect us, open fired. The adults were being cut down as they tried to fight back, like stubborn weeds. I covered my mouth to stop my own cry, and in a hazy stupor, I remember running into the cabins, and collapsing against the door. The gunfire was filling my ears, and I had to cover them to drown out the helpless cries of the dying.

I don't know how long it went on for. I don't know when they left. I don't know where they went.

All I know is that they had Lola. They killed my dad. They couldn't have been human. Humans don't slaughter one another like that.

They were the _Others_ , yet they look like us. This means an awful lot of things, all of which terrify me.

The EMP killed all the power, it rendered vehicles useless. I should have realised that when they came rolling in with the buses and the trucks, and that they couldn't possibly be our own Air Force. If I had figured that out sooner, I could still be with my family. This is a regret that is going stay with me forever.

I pushed open the door with a shaky hand, and stepped out of the little shack reluctantly. My eyes had been screwed shut so tightly, and for so long, the harsh sunlight left me blinded for a few seconds. I made my way to the big building, hot tears rolling down my cheeks. I had fished my Colt M1911 out of the bag, and though it felt foreign to me in my hand, I held it out anyway, completely unsure of what I was going to find inside.

The mass of bodies was jolting. So many had just been left where they fell, piled on top of each other. The expressions of horror were still frozen on a few. Scouring the faces, I was searching for him. For my dad. I don't know why I thought seeing his body would help - because it certainly wouldn't - but I couldn't stop myself.

It wasn't long until I spotted his crumpled frame in the throng of all the corpses. His eyes were closed, and I preferred it that way. The whole of his left side was peppered in blood, his left hand disfigured beyond recognition. I sobbed over his body, his warmth bringing me comfort and pain simultaneously.

"I love you, daddy," I whispered, as I planted a kiss on his forehead. "Thank you for giving me a home. Thank you for giving me a family."

And with that I got up, and left my father amongst the other dead. I picked up a discarded rifle, slung it over my shoulder alongside my backpack, and headed off out into the wilderness, alone this time. Truly alone.

I hadn't a clue where I was going, I was just following the tyre tracks left by the buses. I needed to get to Lola. I made her a promise, she's my priority.

I don't know if Lola's alive now. I don't know if anyone is still alive. For all I know, I could be the last person on Earth.

Days, weeks, months I walked. Three whole months I think. I'd kept track of the days remarkably well, considering I haven't had any way of checking. I'm almost certain it's the 9th of January.

I haven't spoken to another soul for three months, and eight days. That's an incredibly long time to be alone. Of course, roaming the country by myself, I've bumped into a few of the _Others,_ and I'd put a bullet in each and every single one of their heads with malice. The crucifix soldier was the first l real person I'd seen in months, and I shot him, because the months of accumulated isolation and being so detached from any form of community had created a barrier between me and anybody I come across. The fear of not knowing who, or _what_ they are, was enough to cause me to shoot first, afraid of what would happen if I didn't.

I wonder sometimes what the old Daisy would think of me now. The girl who shoots first.

I still try and justify my reasons for killing him. I think it may have something to do with the army fatigues he wore. The 'soldiers' had took my little sister, of course I'd be right in assuming they're all non-human. But he never shot me. If he was an _Other_ , he would have pulled the trigger before I ever uttered a word.

He wasn't one of the soldiers I saw the day they killed my dad and took my little sister. He wasn't, but he was. Not any of them, but all of them. That uniform embodied them all. It connected them all, forming the link in my mind.

I know I pulled the trigger, but at the same time I didn't. It was _them_ who forced my hand. I killed the crucifix soldier, but so did the _Others_. It's not my fault, it's _theirs_. His wide, frightened eyes flash in front of my own, and I thought to myself _if you want to blame someone for your death, blame them, and get off my back_.

The sun starts to rise, and I barely notice. I wasn't tired, and I'd been walking for so long I didn't feel the aches in my legs anymore. I was glad for the sunlight now, though. In the dark, the woods are looming, threatening. Constantly my eyes would be darting back and forth, convinced I could see a horde of Others coming for me in the distance. Then I'd blink, and it would just be an ominous bush, or the remnants of somebody else's camp. I didn't dare look through other people's supplies. I felt that though they could still be there or not, though they could be dead or not, I wouldn't feel right about taking their things.

Shooting an innocent man however, that I could stomach. What an odd turn of events.

I came across a highway, still littered with the aftermath of the EMP that hit six months ago. Cars were overturned, and seemingly had been looted. People's belongings had been spilt out onto the tarmac, and though I was conflicted about rifling through stranger's possessions, the crows certainly weren't, pecking at whatever they could spot with their beady eyes.

The birds didn't bother me anymore, because I knew I was immune to their virus, but that didn't mean I didn't despise them with my every fibre. Who knows, one of them could be the little bastard who indirectly infected my mom.

The temperature was below freezing, and I could see the frost coating the ground. My breath turned to ice in the air, and my fingers were numb as they gripped onto my M16.

I was so cold all over, that at first I hardly felt the bullet sear through my thigh.

The gunshot echoed throughout the area, and I fell face first onto the concrete, crying out in pain. Another gunshot rang out, and I watched as it ricochetted off of the old Buick sedan beside me. Doing what I felt was the only sensible thing, I rolled underneath the horrible beige vehicle, the tears pricking at my eyelids.

I hear the windshield shatter, and around the Buick glass showers down, so I cover my eyes. It's a tight fit under here, no room to roll over, no room to turn around if the gunman shows up on left side. Cornered.

Bleeding out. That's what I'm doing, and it's all I can do. My leg is burning with this intense heat, pain coursing through my veins. My breathing has become ragged, and my heart his hammering in my chest. I'm clutching onto my beloved M14, though I find myself questioning what I intend to even do with it. I can't exactly get up and face my gunman - I can't get up period.

The minutes are spinning out, and things are beginning to look extremely bleak. I'm shivering, yet I'm sweating, the pool of gushing, scarlet blood soaking through my jeans and staining the tarmac.

Where is he? Why hasn't he come to finish me off? Then it hits me; he's using a high-powered rifle. Has to be. That means he could be over half a mile away when he shot me. Which also means that I have longer than I thought I did. Long enough to run, or long enough to say my prayers and hope he doesn't find me?

I'm shaking uncontrollably now. I'm going into shock. I have to figure out what I'm going to do, and I have to decide quickly, or else he'll make that choice for me.

Something takes over when you're facing death. The front part of your brain just relinquishes control over everything, giving in to the inhibitions of the oldest part of you, the part that takes care of your heartbeat and breathing and blinking of your eyes. The same part that nature first built to keep your alive.

It's an either/or world now. Either he's coming to finish me off, or he isn't. Either I run - or hop or crawl or roll or stumble - or I stay under this car and bleed to death.

I'll be damned if I let myself die under a bloody Buick.

Black stars blossom and dance in front of my eyes. I can't get enough air into my lungs. I have to act fast. Tearing off a strip of material from my shirt, and I fasten it around my thigh with fumbling hands. With quivering hands I explore my wound, staring up at the guts of the Buick, and I discover that now that I've tied the tourniquet, there is only a trickle of blood seeping from my bullet wound, rather than the waterfall I had a minute ago.

I release a sigh I didn't know I was keeping in. I shift a couple of centimetres to my right - I don't like lying in my own blood. Now what?

Lola's face appears in my mind, in a series of images. Her as a baby, in my arms in the hospital. Her playing with her duckies in the bath. Her holding my hand as we buried our mother in the garden. Her waving desperately to me from the backseat of the bus.

I can't give up on her. I can't fail her.

I'm bleeding out. If the last thing that I do is bring my killer down, then I wouldn't mind the blood. I'd welcome it. So I bare my skin. I count all of my sins - shooting the crucifix soldier, for one - and I close my eyes. I take every single piece of it in.

With that fuel, I force myself out from underneath the Buick, and stumble across the road, the Colt M1911 from my pocket now outstretched in my hands. I spot a figure making his way towards me a couple of hundred metres away, and I don't hesitate to fire at him. I send several rounds his way, one after the other, until I stupidly try to run, pressing all of my weight onto my injured leg. The piercing pain was enough to release a scream from my lips, and I black out almost instantly.

As I fell, I said an apology to everybody I've ever let down. I felt like I'd failed them all, by dying here, without much of a fight, and without ever coming good on my promise.

Hopelessness is sinking in, and the emptiness is all I know.


	8. A Full Circle

**A.N: If you're enjoying this, please let me know in the reviews! Also, this chapter-by-chapter playlist I'm creating is something new I'm trying out, and I'm just wondering if it's working? Is anybody listening to those songs? Thanks!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own** ** _The 5th Wave_** **, at all.**

 **Chapter Song:** ** _Breath of Life_** **by Florence + The Machine.**

 **WARD**

I didn't know her.

I'd seen her before though. In the woods, I'd came across her a few times. She'd be writing in this leather bound journal of hers. I should have killed her. I should have _been able_ to kill her. There was something about her that made my breath hitch in my throat. The first time my eyes laid on her, the moonlight was glinting in her chestnut brown eyes, and I saw something much deeper than sadness in her almond-shaped orbs. She was looking at something, a picture I think, and whatever it was of, it was making her upset. Even though she was alone, or at least thought she was alone, she wouldn't let herself cry. She was holding back her tears, trying to stay strong for either herself, or somebody else. Why? Why did she think she had to be tough, when there was nobody around?

Beautiful, too. So beautiful. Olive skin, with those trademark elegant Asian features. Her hair was long, and it was the colour of hot chocolate, warm and dulcet. I coveted to run my hands through it. She wore absolutely no make-up, for obvious reasons, yet I still found that she was prettier than any girl I'd ever laid eyes on - pre-apocalypse, and post. Her lips were full, and were curved into this half-hearted, dejected smile. Whoever the photograph was of, she must have cared for them a lot.

Clad in a pair of black jeans, and a green knit sweater that was a few sizes too big, with these chunky walking boots on her feet and a backpack brimming with supplies by her side, she looked almost normal, as if she were merely on a hike, not running from the _Others._

From me.

My hands were shaking, as I looked through the scope of my sniper rifle, my elbow propping me up on the ground, I realised that I couldn't shoot her. I couldn't kill her. And even worse, I didn't want to kill her.

How many others have I killed for the cause? How many others have died at my expense? Why should this girl be different?

The rest of them were strangers. I knew none of their names, none of their backstories, nothing. None of them meant anything to me. This girl _should_ be the same. Yet I never felt so strongly for them as I do her. There's something about her, everything about her, that draws me in. Whether it's her tough demeanour, how resilient she is. Maybe it's because she's beautiful. Or maybe it's deeper than that, and I can't place it because I'm afraid.

So very afraid of her. Of this effect she has over me.

It's this fear that made me slowly and silently get up and leave, without a second thought about it.

I repeated this for the next few days, following her through the woods. I would watch over her, and take out those who came in her way - though I was quick to realise that she was quite capable of that herself. She must have figured out we could appear in human form, making her persistent in gunning down any of us that crossed her path. This is what made me reluctant to make myself known to her.

I was quite contempt with trailing her, knowing that she was safe, though I did wonder what she sounded like. What kind of accent she possessed. She's so dainty, I imagine that she's soft-spoken, with an airy voice. I expect her name is something pretty, like a flower perhaps. Rose, Lily, Violet, _Daisy_. Any would suit her.

I would picture what our first meeting would be like too. They ranged from me saving her life, to her nursing me back to health. I would get quite wrapped up in these scenarios sometimes, that I would lose sight of her for a split second. My heart would jump into my throat, the grip on my sniper rifle tightening. Then I'd find her again, spotting a flash of blue on her backpack in between the trees.

Usually.

One time, I looked away for too long. It was daybreak. She neared a highway, and I watched her watch the sunrise. The amber flecks caught her dewy olive skin, and illuminated her. She smiled despite herself, closing her eyes, and I was a goner. So beautiful, I imagined myself approaching her then and there, my hand slipping into her own, and we would gaze into the sunset together.

How stupid of me. How careless. How reckless.

She took three steps out onto the road, when a bullet struck her. The echoing crack, and her bloodcurdling scream snapped me out of my stupor, and rushed to the mouth of the tree line, and peered out, careful to make myself invisible. I saw the girl roll under a rusting Buick, leaving behind her a smear of crimson blood. She was struggling to keep herself afloat, and I hated watching her struggle. Squinting, I scanned the clearing, and spotted the sniper on the overpass. He was shooting at the car, determined to silence this girl.

One shot. That's all it took to silence him. He fell backwards, and disappeared, the gunshots ceasing immediately.

This didn't register with the girl. She believed the enemy to still be out there. Forcing herself to stand, blood pouring down her thigh, soaking into her jeans, she held out her pistol, firing round after round aimlessly. I grinned, oddly. She was determined to go down fighting. I admired that.

Then she fell, and her eyes fluttered shut. I bounded over to her, without hesitation, and I felt for a pulse on her neck, gently brushing her hair away. Shivers went up my spine, as my fingers grazed her skin. I found her heartbeat, and that caused mine to skip a beat.

Sliding my hands under her legs and upper back, I hoisted her off the ground with ease. She weighed nothing more than a feather. I scooped up her backpack, and both her guns. I then began the trek home, and my eyes barely tearing from her face. She looked so peaceful, so beautiful, so heavenly, the gaping hole in her thigh was antithetic.

It was about an hour up to my family's farm. I hurried the whole way there, stopping only once at the ambulance that had crashed two miles from my house. I've had next to no medical training, not really, but I know enough to help treat this girl. She's losing a lot of blood, and I'm going to have to do something to fix that. She's tied a makeshift tourniquet to her leg, which has done her a world of good. I smile down at her in my arms. Beautiful, _and smart_. When this girl wakes, it's going to be more difficult then I could have imagined to get her to trust me.

I take the last few steps up my porch, the wind now a bitter breeze, causing the wind chimes outside to rattle eerily. Anxiously, I looked down at the girl in my arms, and saw that she was paler than normal, and her eyelids were fluttering uncontrollably. Sweat was beginning to frame her face, and I could feel her burning up in my arms, the heat from her body radiating through the thin material of her jeans. Her lips, which were tinged blue, parted, and I saw that her breathing had grown ragged. Her heartbeat was irregular too. Glancing at her fingernails, I saw that they were turning a sort of violet too.

She was going into shock. Hemorrhagic shock, I believe. That's the fatal kind right?

How do you treat shock? Elevate the legs? Warmth? Immobilisation?

I'm going to assume all of the above. I push the door open, and rush upstairs. I lay the girl down in the first room I come across - which just so happens to be mine. I tug her jeans off, my breath hitching in my throat when I caught sight of the black panties. I'm going to have to take the bullet out, to prevent infection. I tighten the tourniquet, and hoist her legs into the air gently. It's supposed to allow the blood to circulate better, I can't remember. It seems to work however, and I decide to keep them held up for a little longer, my bare hand clutching onto her bare thigh.

Now, how do I clean the wound, and keep her warm?

I decide to light a fire in the fireplace in the corner of the room, and retrieve the first aid kit I salvaged from the ambulance. It was very advanced, and I had trouble labelling the equipment. I knew what the tweezers were, and I knew what the needle and thread were, so I figured that's all I needed. Carefully, I reached inside the wound, a little squeamishly, as I realised just how deep it was.

It's funny really. I can put a bullet in somebody, put I can't pull it out.

Eventually I do, and I place the bloody piece of shrapnel on the bedside table. I stitch the wound up, when the blood start to gush out. It's messy, and I don't think it'll last, but better I do it now then when she wakes.

I then drag the drip I found at the wreckage up the stairs into my room, now hers, and read the label on the back of the fluid bag. It wasn't blood, but apparently it helps. I inserted it into the right place in her arm, and made sure that it was secure. I tuck her in nicely under the sheets, throwing the huge duvet over her carefully, and make sure that she's warm, but not burning up. The shock should subside now.

I lay there for a long while, watching her sleep. I've been so alone for a while now, that the mere sound of somebody else so close should have unsettled me, but it did the opposite. Her breathing calms, and it starts to soothe me. It's comforting, in a way. I know that she's safe, that I saved her, and in return, she's saved me.

A full circle of lives saved.

I don't realise how tired I am until I feel my eyes start to droop. I yawn, and pick up one of the folded blankets off of the floor. I cover myself, and after checking that the girl was fine, I allow myself a few hours of sleep.

I wake when the first signs of dawn peer through the curtains. This girl has been with me for a whole twenty-four hours now. She hasn't woke yet, and I take this as a good sign. If she's still asleep, she must need the rest.

I go downstairs and make myself a simple breakfast of toast from the bread I bake fresh daily. You can't keep anything in the apocalypse, it all goes stale. That's why I make the bread. That, and I need something to keep my hands from reaching for the gun.

Why did I save her, if what makes me one of them is telling me I need to end her? From my heart down to my legs, it feels like a fever has spread, and the room is so quiet. The call, the call to to keep her alive, is sublime in a way. Could I be losing my mind? Or am I looking for my breath of life? Just one breath, that's going to tie me back down to Earth. A little touch of heavenly light.

But all the choirs in my head sing no.

The scent fills the house, and I'm reminded of days before the Arrival. At first they're happy memories, and I smile and laugh. Then, the pain settles. The bodies of my mother, my father, both of my brothers, flash before my eyes, and I can't bear it.

I walk back up the stairs, the toast barely touching the sides, a sick and empty feeling in my chest, and I stand in the doorway of my room, now this girl's. Her hair has fell about her on the white pillow, forming a sort of oddly misshapen halo. Her lips have curved into a contempt smile, and I wonder what she was thinking about. Her family, her friends, her pets, her boyfriend? Of course, if she was roaming the woods alone, it was highly likely all those mentioned were long dead. I pitied her, and I wished that she could stay dreaming, as to remember them all properly.

Sighing, I rub my eyes, and look around the room. I spot her backpack laying on the floor, the zip slightly askew. I wouldn't call myself a particular nosy person, but curious, now that's different. I just wanted to know her name.

I scoop the bag up off the floor, and rummage through, careful not to disturb her strangely extremely disorganised way of packing her belonging, fearing she'd somehow know. My eyes light up when I spot an I.D. of some sorts - a volunteer's name tag. It was for _Lilydale Elementary Youth Support Team._ Her name read; _Daisy Johnson_. I grinned, proudly, as I had guessed just that. She looked like a Daisy. It was the soft features. That smile.

Daisy. Daisy. _Daisy._ Her name just rolled off of my tongue. It felt like a birdsong on my lips. Pretty and melodious.

I glanced back over at her, and I spotted a smudge of dirt on her nose. I decided that I had to clean her, or else risk infection. I carried her into the bathroom, and laid her gently into the bathtub. Averting my eyes, I undressed her, a little redness rising to my cheeks. I tried not to let my eyes linger longer than they had to, though that proved tricky getting her bra off. It had been a long time since I'd had to do _that_.

I held her up with my hand on her neck, the other massaging the soap into her hair. It was lavender I think. That was the easy part. Cleaning the wound on her thigh was a little more difficult, and trying to cleanse her body with the cloth and the soap was more awkward than enjoyable. She was beautiful, yet she was unconscious, and this was borderline creepy, I knew that. Explaining why her nails shone and her skin smelt of lavender was going to be galling when she opens her eyes.

Carefully, I snaked my hands under her knees and under her arms, I hoisted her out of the bath, and quickly wrapped a towel around her bare body. I then took her back into my room, now hers, and I laid her back down. I considered putting her own clothes back on her, but they smelt . . . awful, honestly. The stench of dirt and blood and sweat wasn't exactly pleasant. It would completely defeat the point of having a bath if she was to put the filthy clothes back on.

Instead, I dug out an old nightdress of my mom's. It was rather fanciful, a navy blue silk gown, that stopped just above her knees. I gulped, as I dressed her in it, my fingertips brushing her skin. I bandaged her now clean wound, and covered her body with the duvet, more to stop me looking than to keep her warm.

I thought about sitting and waiting for her to wake again, but I decided that there was no way I could sit in that chair for God knows how long, staring at _that_ face. Instead, I looked around for a book to read, on my shelves. My eyes darting from over to cover, I groan, realising I'd read them all. As I give up, turning to leave the room, I stumble quite literally across something. A leather bound book, half under the bed, half tucked under Daisy's bag. It must have fell out.

There's no title, but I don't need one to guess what it's about. I've seen her writing in it enough times. It's her diary. The question is, do I open it?


	9. Two Of Us

**A.N: Hope you're all enjoying this! Love the support.**

 **Disclaimer: No, I do not own** ** _The 5th Wave._**

 **Chapter Song:** ** _Two Of Us On The Run_** **by Lucius.**

 **LINCOLN**

Head, hands, feet, neck, back, eyes, jaw, stomach, arms, legs, chest - everything aches. I clamber onto the bus, weary boned with my eyelids drooping. The second I perch myself on the backseat, pulling my hood low over my face, I'm out like a light.

Three months ago my biggest concerns were if I was going to pass AP Biology, and wondering if I could find a summer job that was going to pay enough for me to afford to go Cancun for spring break. Leading up to the first wave, the mothership took up some of my thoughts, but mainly I just worried that our team weren't going to make it through the play-offs. Then the power went out, and I couldn't share those funny YouTube videos poking fun at the aliens, or the foreign news reports where the newscaster would talk to 'experts' about what they believe is going on. I wasn't sitting behind a screen any more, watching from afar. It was real, and it was happening to me. They took _my_ power.

Now, I'm alone and exhausted, and I just want to go somewhere clean, where I'm not looking behind my back every other second.

It feels like I'm asleep for just under a minute when my eyes flutter open, though it's light out when I wake, and it was pitch black when I first boarded the bus. Next to me I hear the sobs and the whimpers of a little girl, an oversized parka coat hanging off her shoulders, tears rolling down her rosy cheeks. She's banging on the back window with as much strength as she can muster, calling out to somebody through the glass. Curious, I swivel around and peer out the window, where I spot a figure through the heavy dust cloud, struggling to catch up.

I turn to the little girl, who is sobbing quite drastically now, and immediately I know what's happening. I reach out and tentatively grab ahold of the little girl's hand, and give her a small smile.

"Is that your mommy out there?" I ask her, softly. She shakes her head.

"Its my big sister," she corrects me.

I then lead her to the front of the bus, where one of the men in uniform sit behind the wheel. I tap him on the shoulder, the little girl still clutching onto my hand with her tiny fist.

"Sir, you have to stop the bus," I explain, with a sombre tone. "This little girl's sister is outside, and she - "

"How old is she?" the man asks, not for a second tearing his eyes of the road, or lifting his foot off the gas pedal.

Struggling for an answer, I turn to the girl, who's bottom lip is trembling. "Seventeen," she sniffs.

The man sighs. Not a good sign. "Listen kid, she can take the next bus, alright? We haven't got time to stop."

I try and argue, but there's no use. The man is persistent we persevere, and no amount of crying or protesting is going to change his mind. With a heavy heart I sit back down with the girl next to me, not letting go of her hand. I look down at her, and feel a pang of recognition. Why do I feel I know her? Do I know her? I can't though, she looks as if she's about five. I don't remember ever being friends with any five year olds, beside my sister Hannah . . .

That's when it hits me. This girl, this tiny, little girl, had been her best friend, Lola. The pair did everything together, and I recall the countless times Hannah and Lola wold build princess castles in the living room and make a mess in the kitchen and insist _Frozen_ be blasted through every speaker throughout the house.

I remember her, and I remember thinking she was always really sweet, and polite, and that besides my sister of course, she was the cutest little girl in the neighbourhood. I also remember her sister. I remember her reputation as a legendary hacker. I remember her asshole of a boyfriend. I remember that she had this adorable smile.

"Lola, do you know who I am?" I say, with a slight grin. She looks up at me, focusing her attention. Clearly it's been a long time since she last saw me, and faces were beginning to blur. However, I watched as the veil was peeled back in her eyes, and they widened with realisation.

"Lincoln!" she cried, as she jumped up and wrapped her arms around me. The gesture was so foreign to me after so long of being alone, that at first I didn't know how to react. Should I hug her back, or should I gently peel her off me?

I know what I want to do. I keep her on, and snake my arms around her tiny frame. It reminds me of embracing my own little sister, before she slipped away from me. It's comforting, in a way. It's nice.

Lola tears herself away from me, but perches closer beside me on the seat. I know what's on the tip of her tongue, as I can see her itching to ask me the dreaded question.

"She didn't make it," was all I could say.

I thought that speaking about it would make me upset, but in fact it resonated with Lola too, as another tear fell down her cheek. I stretched out and held her hand in my now, grazing my thumb across her knuckles.

"But your sister, she's tough," I added, completely assertive in how I came across. I truly thought that she was going to be okay, that in a few hours the two sisters could be reunited again. What I would want for my own family. "She's going to find her way back to you in no time."

Lola nodded, and smiled, modestly. "Daisy promised."

Her name is Daisy? Huh. It's prettier than Daley, and it suits her much better. I actually really like it. How come she never corrected me?

There were two of us on the run now. I'm not alone any more. Me and Lola. The wheels were going so fast that every doubt we had was coming undone, and the other had to stitch it back up. Falling behind with everything we left, we held on far too long. But there are so many people on the road with us. Now we're together, I feel like we can make something of ourselves. Keep our favourite parts, the ornamental parts, of love and memories. Everything else has room to grow.

We reach Wright Patterson Air Force Base in just under four hours, and I instruct Lola not to leave my side. Her chunky backpack - ladybird patterned, of course - is swung over my shoulder, as well as my own duffel bag, and her hand is tightly in mine. We're loaded off in the hangars, where hundreds of other kids disembark their yellow buses. We get handed these counters that have numbers engraved on. Lola's number is forty-nine, and mine is fifty; we're told to wait for them to be called out.

Patiently, we stand in the middle of the hangar, encircled my soldiers and medical staff, who are tending to the children who seem to have picked up nasty scrapes and bumps as they wandered the wilderness. There aren't any adults, and I appear to be the oldest in here. I can feel Lola fidget next to me, and I know she's looking around for her sister. I let her go for a few seconds, asking that she remain there, whilst I slip away and talk to one of the soldiers.

"Excuse me, I was wondering when the next buses were going to get here?" I ask one of them, inquisitively. They simply turn their head to face me, and shrug. Scoffing, I walk back to Lola, who starts to tug at my hoodie.

"They called out my number," she said, with such an innocent gleam in her eyes. "Should I go?"

Anxiously, I glance between Lola, and the nurse waiting for her, a beam spreading across her face, and a hand outstretched. I ruffle Lola's blonde locks, and tell her it's alright, handing her back her bag.

"I'll see you later, okay?" I call after her, waving. She waves back, smiling brightly, nodding.

"Was that your sister?" asks the other nurse, as my number is read. She's older than the other one, crow's feet peeking out from behind her greying bangs, though she seems just as nice.

I shake my head. "She was a girl in my neighbourhood. my little sister's best friend, actually."

The woman understands immediately, and places a comforting hand on my forearm, as we stop outside a door. "I'm sorry to hear that."

I wave it off, or else fear the tears that were bound to come. She leads me into the room, were a hospital bed and a computer screen awaits us. A long mirror covers one entire wall. The whole room smells of bleach, and the white of the walls was blinding. It felt surreal, to be surrounded by something so modern as an office space like this, that it's striking.

"Do you mind just taking a seat, and answering a few questions for me?" she asks nicely, gesturing to the hospital bed. I nod, and flop backwards.

The questions themselves are relatively simple - what's your full name? Lincoln James Campbell. How old am I? Just turned eighteen in September. Where are you from? Roseland, Chicago. What happened to your family? All dead. The plague. Have you previously been infected? No. Where did I go after I left home? Found a refugee camp on the outskirts of Ohio. Do I know where any other survivors are? Not really.

When it's over, she pats me on my knee and tells me I'm safe now. I don't have to be scared. My fingers find the chain around my neck, on which hangs a little silver locket that once belonged to Hannah. I nod.

A physical follows. She tells me with a positive tone that with everything that's happened, I've managed to keep myself healthy and strong. Then a minuscule pellet the size of a grain of rice, in implanted into my neck. Highly classified, been used by the military for years. Apparently. The idea is to implant all remaining personnel. Each pellet transmits it's own unique so signal so that keeping tabs on us is easier. To keep track of us, she tells me. To keep us safe. I know it's all with good intentions, but I still feel extremely uncomfortable with the idea of somebody knowing exactly where I am throughout the day.

Then, as she begins to type up all of the information, I lean forward. My head is swimming after all the questions, and the painful recollection of my family, but I still remember my promise.

"Do you know what happened to the rest of the survivors up at Camp Ashpit?" I inquire. "When they're going to get here?"

The doctor shakes her head, apologetically. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure. Just wait for the yellow buses, okay?"

Then, just when I thought that it was all over, and I could go and find Lola, she sits down next to me, with a heavy sort of sigh. "Do you know what's going on outside these walls, Lincoln?"

Of course I do.

"They're inside us. They're infesting us all, slowly. We don't know how to stop them from doing so, but we can detect them."

Keeping the shock from creeping onto my face was difficult. The _Others_ are infesting us? How? Why? Who? And how can nobody know how to prevent them from crawling inside our brains and taking control of us?

"Would you like to see one?"

I thought that after the whole 'they're inside us' line, I couldn't possibly be unprepared for what they had to say next. I was oh-so-horribly wrong.

She flicks a switch, and the mirror fades, so that I'm no longer looking at my own reflection, but the face of a young boy, about twelve or so, behind the glass. He was sat in a chair, with wires protruding off of his head. His eyes were somehow staring deep into my own, though the doctor assured me that he couldn't see us.

"He can't be infested," I say, shaking my head with disbelief. "He was on the bus with me. I saw him. He looks so normal."

As I say this, the doctor slides a monitor in front of my eyes, and I jump backwards immediately. Just looking through the glass, the boy is a boy, and just that. Looking through the monitor, his entire skull lights up green, his brain encased in translucent bone.

"That's the key word, Lincoln," she explains, sombrely. "'Looks normal'. Appearances are everything to the aliens. They need our bodies so that we are more susceptible to trusting them. To not killing them. But we've evolved since the Arrival. We know what they are, and what they're doing. They didn't expect that. We can detect them, thus meaning we can kill them before they can kill us. See that green thing? That's an _Other,_ gripping on to it's last chance at survival. We're smarter than they thought. We're willing to stay alive by any means necessary. Can you say the same, Lincoln? Can you kill to stay alive?"

The words are penetrating my brain like tiny missiles. _Aliens. Bodies. Kill. Alive._ Words that before the Arrival meant nothing more than taglines from video games. Would I want to stay alive if it meant killing another? Could I live knowing that I've ended somebody else? I don't think I would want to.

"Is he alive? The boy I mean."

The doctor doesn't say anything for a while. "He might as well be." If I kill this boy, I kill the _Other_. But if I don't kill him, and the alien stays alive, then would that be worse for the boy, or better for the alien? And how would I feel afterwards? Guilty, or relief?

"Is there another way? Drugs, radiation, electroshock, surgery? There has to be away to keep the boy alive."

"Sadly, no. We've tried everything, and nothing works."

I gulp. The fate of this boy now lies in the kill-switch the doctor hands me. If I press this button, the boy will die. The twelve year old innocent boy who like me has probably lost his parents, his siblings, and everyone he's ever cared about. Now, he's lost his control. That alien clinging to his brain owns him, and there's no way of getting him back.

"Think about Hannah. Think about your parents. They would still be alive today if it wasn't for the mothership. They took that from you. They took your family, your home, your friends, your life. Do you want to take the world back before they can? Do you want revenge, Lincoln? For all the pain and the suffering they have caused, do you want them to feel how you have? How millions and billions of countless others have?"

My fingers subconsciously find the locket again. The cold metal is just a reminder of Hannah's cold body. A body I wouldn't have had to bury if it wasn't for the Others. I'm not killing the boy, I'm killing the thing responsible for all of the attacks.

I bring my finger down as hard as I can.


	10. Fight or Flight?

**A.N: Sorry about the late update, I've just been swamped with schoolwork as of late. Hope you enjoy! :)**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own** ** _The 5th Wave._**

 **Chapter Song:** ** _Holding On For Life_** **by Broken Bells.**

 **LINCOLN**

I felt no remorse about killing the boy. I saved him. There's no life after being infected. There's nothing to live for.

I got up from the bed, my fingers trembling, my lips stretched into a thin line. The doctor smiled at me, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

"If you here anything about the survivors from Camp Ashpit, please tell me. There's a girl, Daisy. It's her sister I arrived with."

She nods, and shows me to the door, telling me that we're all to convene in the main hall where we're assigned to our troop leaders. Whatever that means. As I walk outside, I'm met by swarms of soldiers, marching past me, their footsteps all in sync. I wait for them to pass me, shuffling slightly on my feet. I don't notice one of them approach me, until I spot the polished boots on the floor next to me. Immediately I straighten myself, and look up into the wizened face of the soldier.

He was certainly old enough to be my father, with a round face, and a receding hairline, wrinkles droning the most part of his face. However, he had this sort of rascality to him, that made me think beyond the badge and title, he could really make you laugh.

"Are you Lincoln Campbell?" he asks me, and I'm taken aback that he knows my name. One glance at his rank slides, and I know that he's a Colonel. What's an important military figure like him doing approaching me?

"Yes, sir," I reply, wavering slightly, uncertain whether the sir was perhaps too much.

The man grinned. "I'm Colonel John Garrett, but of course you already knew that, didn't you?"

Did I? I knew he was a Colonel, and by reading the name on his fatigues I could have deduced he was called Garrett. But he said it as though I should have recognised him, should have known who he was the second he spoke.

"Smart boy, smart boy," he added, gripping my shoulder. "Or should I say young man? You're eighteen, aren't you Campbell? Good age, that is. I enlisted when I was eighteen. Would you ever consider enlisting?"

He's talking about it as though there's still a chance I could join the Army, and this worries me.

"No sir, I wanted to be a doctor," I say, as assertively as I could. "Like my father, and his father before him."

"And I bet you would have made a good doctor. It's just, we're calling out for soldiers you see, and we're in dire need of strapping young men like you," he sighs. "Tell me you'll think about, yes?"

I nod, though I already know my answer. As he is about to slip away, I see another chance to ask after the buses. I can't go back to Lola without _something_ to tell her.

"Colonel Garrett, sir, do you mind if I ask you something?"

The man's face lights up, and he nods, gratefully. "Fire away, son."

"There's this girl, Daisy - "

"A girl eh?" he chuckles.

I shake my head, though I can feel a blush creeping up to my cheeks. Since when did I, Lincoln Campbell, blush?

"Not like that sir, she's the sister of the little girl I arrived here with. Her name's Daisy Johnson, and the buses left her behind at Camp Ashpit, their father too . . . "

I would have liked to continue, to express the urgency of the matter, however the drain of colour from Garrett's face tells me everything. His lips thin out, and his eyes seem to soften, maybe get a little misty I might go so far to say.

"Oh, son. I'm sorry. Not long after the first buses left the camp, we received an airstrike from the _Others._ Some of us managed to get out before the bombs made a real impact, but many of my men were hit, as well as the inhabitants. Only a small handful of us escaped. You're friend, she wasn't among them."

I take it back. I'd rather go to Lola empty-handed then with the news her sister and her father had both died. I couldn't bear it. I must admit, I had been looking forward to meeting Daisy again, to be with somebody familiar. Somebody comforting. But now . . .

Garrett pats my shoulder in a supportive sort of manner, and follows after his troops down the corridor. I make my way to the main hall, my head hung low. This horrible feeling of guilt ensued in my stomach. If only I had persisted more with the bus driver, made him stop the vehicle and let Daisy on, then she wouldn't have died. Their father however, there was nothing to be done to help him.

As I reach the hall, I search for Lola, scouring through the sea of children nervously awaiting some adult presence. It stuck me how many of them were young, under ten years old. I was probably the oldest, though I spotted three of four who could have been my age. Nobody seemed to quite know what was going on, or really why all of us were here. And why were there were no adults?

I must have tapped over twenty little girl's shoulders until I finally found Lola in the corner, sat on the lap of a girl around my age. She had wispy sorrel brown hair, tucked into a ponytail that hung from her head. Bags fell from under her chestnut eyes, and she appeared just as exhausted as I felt. She was quite pretty, that much I noticed, clad in a weary pair of jeans and a navy blue sweater that was riddled with holes. Mud caked her walking boots, and broken twigs protruded from here and there. She's trying not to look so miserable. I walk over to the pair, and kneel down, smiling at Lola. "It's okay, I've got her now," I tell the other girl, hoisting Lola into my arms.

I watch as she furrows her eyebrows, and reaches out for the little girl in my arms, protectively. "You don't understand, I know her," she tells me, standing up. The English accent is striking, and I can't help but let the shock appear on my face. Her eyes lock with mine, and she gasps. "Oh my God, you're Lincoln Campbell!"

I nod, slowly, trying to remember where I'd seen this girl before. We'd obviously gone to school together, and I feel awful that I can't remember her name. Her name was on the tip of my tongue.

She rolls her eyes at me, and takes Lola from my arms. "I'm Jemma Simmons. We were seniors. We were in homeroom together."

I snap my fingers in remembrance. "It's great that you're still alive," I say, as I begin to reach out and take Lola's hands. "But Lola was my little sister's best friend. I need to look after her."

"Lola's my best friend's little sister."

These words take me aback, and I find that I'm at a loss for words. This girl knows Daisy. She was Daisy's best friend and Daisy was dead. Not only had I got to tell Lola that her sister and father were gone, but now I also had to inform the best friend. The weight in my chest only increased.

"You were Daisy's best friend?" I mutter, gently.

Jemma nods, confused. Then, I watch closely as she suddenly understands my use of the past tense. She covers her mouth with one of her hands, as tears pool in her eyes. Strangled sobs threaten to escape, and Lola notices. She pouts, and asks Jemma what's wrong. Neither of us know how to, or want to, answer her.

Fortunately, a call from one of the senior staff signals us all to congregate by the podium set up at the far end. Me and Jemma lead Lola, a little hand in each of ours, as I cast furtive glances towards the older girl. She is struggling with the news, and the tears spill over onto her cheeks.

"I'm really sorry about Daisy," I mutter in her ear, careful that Lola doesn't overhear.

Jemma smiles appreciatively, though crookedly, and sorrowfully. "What happened to her?"

"The buses left her behind. Her, and her dad. Then there was an airstrike, and it killed . . . everyone. She didn't survive. Neither of them did."

Whimpering slightly, she closes her eyes, and tightens her grip on Lola's hand. Holding on for life, it seems. The tears are like tiny glass crystals as they slip down her cheek, and all I can do is pity her, and share in her grief. I place a hand on her shoulder, but it feels somewhat an insignificant gesture. I couldn't understand her loss, and I couldn't ask her to help me understand. It wasn't going to bring her best friend back. It wasn't going to bring Lola's family back.

Slithers of sunlight peer through the cracks in the blackout paint on the hanger windows. Faint chirps of birds can be heard underneath all the nervous chatter. _What a lovely day to be lonely_ , I thought, looking at Jemma.

Lola looks up at the pair of us, with an inquisitive gleam in her eye. I touch her nose gently, with as supportive a smile as I could muster. She didn't know about her sister, and for the time being, she didn't have to. I shared a small glance with Jemma, and she seemed to agree. Instead, we took a hand each, and turned to listen to Colonel Garrett on the podium.

"To those of you who don't know me, I'm Colonel John Garrett, and I'm the commander of this base. All of you stand before me because you're the ones we've found alive. You're all healthy. Your lungs are good. Heart rate, blood pressure. Everything is good. Except, everything isn't good, is it? As you all know, aliens have invaded our planet, and in the space of six months managed to take away everything we hold dear. Many of you are the last of your family to survive. They've killed almost all of us, but not all of us. And that's the flaw in their plan, ladies and gentleman, because if you don't kill all of us then the ones left standing aren't going to be the weak ones. We are the strong ones. Immune to the virus, fortunate enough to live away from disaster, and smart enough to stay alive this long. We are humanity's last hope. We are the ones who are going to take back our world. You're either with me, or dead, so what's it going to be soldiers? Fight, or flight?"

As atrocious as the speech was for the ears of children, it had a resounding effect on them, many whooping him enthusiastically. It was odd, incredibly odd. Lola nervously shuffled on her feet, unsure of how to react, and rightly so. This man wanted to make soldiers out of seven year olds. Even me and Jemma, who were of enlistment age, could not believe the words spewing out of Colonel Garrett's mouth, who didn't seem to be conflicted at all about what he was suggesting. We belong to another time, yet still we have to carry on here. We've nowhere else to go, yet here, we've no idea of what we can show, and what we have to hide.

But it's not like any of us had a choice, right? He said it himself; we either stay here, where our best chance of survival is, and do something about the issue, or we run from it, and take our chances out in the wild where the _Others_ are roaming free, armed and dangerous.

I guess he made my decision. No doctor's degree for me.


	11. Pirate

**Chapter Song: _You Saved Me_ by The Elms**

 **DAISY**

I can't remember the last time I'd smelt a hamburger.

At first, I wasn't even all that sure I had awoken, believing myself to still be asleep, and having that all too familiar dream of ordering a beloved In'n'Out again. Imagination, my imagination, has been playing some pretty cruel tricks on me as of late. A couple of weeks ago I faintly recall hearing my mother's voice calling out to me, informing me dinner was ready. Of course, I was wrong on both counts - Audrey wasn't really my mom, and she certainly wasn't in the woods rustling me up some delectable feast like in the good old days.

So why should I have trusted my nose when I smelt the unmistakable aroma of beef, cheese, and that all important bun?

The thing is, my stomach was growling profusely, and hunger seemed to overcome all sense of logic. My hand itched to the side of me where I went to unzip the sleeping bag, when I noticed that I wasn't in a sleeping bag at all. Instead, I was outstretched on the plumpest of mattresses I'd ever felt, so much so that I might as well have been laying on clouds. This was strange, because I'd fallen asleep last night exactly how I had for the past three months and nine days; folded ever so uncomfortably in my slightly-too-big sleeping bag, on the gallingly hard ground, or maybe perched precariously and somewhat timorously up on a thick branch. I was neither stiff or elevated, so where on earth had I fallen asleep?

Heart hammering away in my chest, I wasn't sure if I wanted to open my eyes. The last thing I can recollect is a searing pain in my thigh, and the faint smell of petrol. Though the petrol scent has long since faded, I try and move my leg, and a burning sensation rips through my nervous system.

Shaking, I dare to reach my hand down and feel for the damage. What I feel causes a gasp to escape my lips. _There was nothing there._ My jeans I had lived in since the day we left our family home, had disappeared, and I was left in just an unfamiliar nightgown I believe. A bandage had been wrapped around my wound. My underwear was nowhere in sight.

I still haven't open my eyes, and I'm terrified to even try. However, I'm literally in the dark about my whereabouts, and I can't help myself until I at least gather an idea of where I am. Slowly but surely, my eyes flicker open.

I don't know how to feel about being in a teenage boy's room. I hadn't been in one since Miles and I split, and he hadn't been a teenager for some time, so it didn't really count. It was a lot tidier than I had expected, and there wasn't a dirty poster in sight. In fact, the only posters he did have up where old spy films from the 60's. A stack of books filled the corner, ranging from survival guides to autobiographies of soldiers and adventurers. Also, a mountainous pile of college pamphlets lay discarded in the bin, and just a quick glance at the names, I saw that this guy was interested in perhaps every college in the whole of the United States. Keeping his options open maybe? A computer screen lay collecting dust on a desk, next to an XBOX which seemed equally as grimy - due to the power going out over six months ago, he hasn't had means to turning them on.

I'm certain it's a _he_ because the colour of the room is a rather fetching shade of blue, that causes images of blueberry jam and the deep end of a swimming pool to flutter throughout my mind.

Another cautious glance across the room allows me to spot my backpack, sat on the chair, along with my clothes folded neatly. The zipper looks untouched, but you can't be too sure. Now, unless my rifle had conveniently shrunk to fit into my bag, then it wasn't here, and that itself was a worrying thought. Either I'd left it behind where I'd been shot, meaning I had no protection, or the owner of this nightgown - okay, so maybe not the _owner_ per say - and the bed, and the blue room, and taken it, meaning he didn't want me to have protection.

However, I still had my pistol, or at least hoped I still had my pistol.

There was only one way to check, and that was to search my backpack for it. I hoisted myself up, the effects of remaining still for however long being that of aches and pains coursing through my joints. Then, as I try and stand up off of the bed, I fall flat onto my face, hitting the ground hard, knocking the chair over as I do so. I cry out, and immediately clap a hand to my mouth. I hear the creaks of the stairs, and I know he heard me. Scuffling to my feet as best as I can, I launch myself into the bed, throwing the covers over me, tears pricking at my screwed shut eyes as I feel my wound rip open.

I know he's opened the door when that burger aroma grows stronger. I try and steady my breathing, and grit my teeth to bare the pain.

"I know you're awake, Daisy," he says to me. His voice cut through me like a knife, the soft, good old American accent I'd craved to hear wrapping around my name - a name he couldn't possibly know.

Snapping my head around, furrowing my eyebrows, I stare right at the face of my captor - or helper, depends how this next conversation goes.

"How the fuck do you know my name?" I demand, harshly.

He tucks his hands into his pocket. "Driver's license. It was in your . . . bag . . . what happened here?" He spots the mess I've made, the aforementioned bag lying on the floor, and looks back over at me. "What did you do?"

He rushes over to me so fast, I'm afraid what he's going to do to me. I swing my hand out and hit him square in the chest, in an effort to get him to leave me be, but he's strong, and pulls the sheets off of me before I can hold them taut. His eyes widen when he sees my leg, blood seeping out of my wound and spilling onto the sheets under me.

"Jesus, Daisy!" He doesn't hesitate to put his hands under my knees and around my waist, scooping me out of the bed. His touch is surprisingly soft, and he's warm, and just so immensely strong. I feel the muscles in his chest straining as he carries me, and I try not to dwell on the thought of what they must look like. I scream out in pain, the sudden movement doing me more bad than good. This boy - or man, he has one of those faces that place him in the age range of seventeen to thirty - leads me down the landing, and into a bathroom that smelt like lavender; the same scent that lingers on my skin and hair. Whilst he sets me down on the side of the bathtub, I glance down at my hands, and my pristine nails shock me.

I start to piece everything together; the anomalous nightgown, the new lavender scent lingering on my skin, the dressed leg.

"You cleaned me."

He nods whilst unwrapping the bandaging, which has now clung to my flesh. I grit my teeth and wince as he gently tugs it off.

"You undressed me."

He nods again as he dabs pure alcohol on the great big gaping hole in my thigh, the size of a cork. I scream and dig my nails into the side of the bathtub.

"You saw me naked."

This catches him off guard, and drops the needle and thread in surprise, looking up at me. I'm a little taken aback at the fact he can look me in the eyes and with a straight face, after I've said the words aloud. They're hazelnut coloured orbs, with these tiny flecks of amber. I feel as though I'm looking into the eyes of a deer that I've stumbled across in the woods, and it's considering whether to scarper or not.

The boy (or man, really, I can't tell) nods, slowly this time, as he picks up the needle and thread. "I'm sorry about that, there really wasn't an alternative. You were going into shock. I had to keep you warm, and clean the wound at the same time."

I suppose that makes sense. "You could maybe have left my panties on though," I point out, half joking, half completely serious.

The boy smiles, whether out of embarrassment, or he finds me amusing, I'm not sure. I don't get to ask him though, as he braces me for the needle piercing my skin. He stitches my wound up, quite precisely, and methodically. Then, he helps me to my feet, which are slightly numb. I haven't used them in . . . how long now?

"How long have I been here?" I ask him, trying to ignore the fact his arm is snaked around my waist.

"It'll be a week tomorrow."

"Fuck," I hiss. "Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, shit, _fuck._ "

The boy slash man stops in his tracks, halting me too, on the landing. He looks me up and down, concern evident in his features.

"What is it?" he queries.

"My sister," I whisper. "How far away is Wright Patterson?"

"The air base?" I nod. "Too far. Two hundred miles, at a push. Why?"

My jaw drops. Three months of walking and I'm _further away_ from the base than I was when I began. The boy slash man starts to lead me towards his room again, but I shake my head, and tell him I'm sick of laying down.

"You need rest," he assures me.

"I need one of those burgers I can smell," I reply, in an equally serious tone.

" _You've been shot_ ," he adds, as though the throbbing in my thigh wasn't enough evidence.

"You don't say," I mutter.

I feel him chuckle, as we continue the descent down the stairs that seems never-ending. Fortunately however, after an eternity of climbing, we reach the bottom, the aroma growing ever-present in my nose, taunting me. He directs me to the kitchen, where he sits me at the table, taking all the cushions from all the other chairs, and positioning them around and under me.

I watch as he takes the burger off of the grill, the satisfactory sizzling sound music to my ears, and prop it between two mouthwatering buns. I insist that he put extra cheese on the beef, which he obliges to do. I thank him, and tuck in graciously, savouring each and every bite. He sits across from me, without a plate, and smiles. It's a nice smile, suits him.

Dabbing at my face with the napkin he slides across to me, the burger barely touching my sides, I look over at him.

"Where on earth did you get a burger?" I ask, completely baffled. He chuckles again.

"This is - was, a farm. We had cows, which is where the beef is from. She was our last. The cheese came from the cellar, and I made the bread." He talks about this miracle he just crafted as though it was an itch on his nose, or a tickle in the back of his throat. It took effort to make, but was hardly remarkable or note-worthy. I can't figure out if this modesty was true or not, and I'm inclined to think that it is. The fact this boy slash man just cooked me a burger, something I hadn't had in . . . just under six months, and he probably has burgers whenever he has the motivation to bake the bread, truly, truly astonishes me.

"I mean sorry about your cow, but she's fucking delicious," I say, noticing the faraway look in his eye as he tells me about the farm he no longer has. He smiles. "Am I going to have to dig out your drivers license too, or could you just tell me your name? Save the embarrassing photos."

Again he laughs. I like his laugh too. It sounds like he hasn't laughed in a while, and that makes me morose, because neither have I. Which, in a way, is strange. Before the Arrival, I used to make myself laugh all the time.

"I'm Grant Ward. You can call me Ward, if you like."

"Hi," I grin, greeting him properly. I reach a hand out, which he takes, chuckling again. It's a strong grip, the kind of grip that would impress even the strictest of father's. Mine, maybe not. I observe his hand curiously, and imagine it running a warm, wet cloth over every inch of my body. My completely naked body. I retract my hand quickly.

"Where the hell am I Ward?" I ask softly, cocking my head to the side, bringing my unscathed leg up to rest my chin on.

"Just on the outskirts of Sullivan."

Deeply agitated with myself, I groan out loud, closing my eyes. When I open them, Ward is looking at me strangely. "What is it?"

"I was in some refugee camp in Potawatomi Park, Cedar Lake, last time I saw a _fucking_ sign post. I've been travelling for three _fucking_ months to get to Wright-Patterson. If I'm in Sullivan now, then I've been walking in the wrong _fucking_ direction this whole _goddamn fucking shitting_ time." Out of anger or defeat, I'm not really sure, they're both kind of blending in to one another, I bang my fist against the oak table, that was probably hand carved and assembled by the same hands that washed me. _Damn I really need to get that image out of my head._

Ward doesn't flinch at my outburst In fact, he simply grins, almost sheepishly.

"You know, for someone so pretty and small, you curse like a pirate," he chuckles, shaking his head, possibly out of disbelief.

"Please don't patronise me," I tell him, not sure if my heart was in my throat out of fury, or because of what he called me. _Pretty._

"Trust me, it was all in good faith," he assured me, as he took my plate away from me and tipped the crumbs into the dustbin. I was surprised I'd left anything, after the meagre portions of rabbit and squirrel I've been living off of.

"Cedar Lake, huh?" he says, as he sits back down at the table. I nod. "If my dad knew I was housing a girl from Illinois in my house, well . . . "

I understand the reference immediately. "Your dad was a big basketball fan then?" I say, then teasing look down at my nails and pretend to pick at them, though Ward had made sure that they were gleaming. "Personally I thought the Hoosiers were always good practice for the Fighting Illini, you know, for when they got to play the _real teams._ "

"That's cute, you're cute," he mocks - or is he mocking me? "You know the Hoosiers could wipe the floor with your boys from Illinois."

I lean over and punch him, playfully, in the arm. He cries out, though I think it's just for comedic effort, as I know that my weak ass punch could barely bruise those tree trunks he calls arms. Seriously, this boy slash man has biceps to rival cage fighters.

"How old are you, Ward?" I ask, curious.

"Turned nineteen nine days ago."

It seems odd, to hear about something as mundane as birthdays, after every complete _un-mundane_ that's happened lately.

"Well, happy birthday for nine days ago," I tell him, feeling it the right thing to do. He seems to appreciate the gesture, late though it is, and grins widely at me again. Truly, it really suits him. "You don't look like a farm boy, you know. More like some Abercrombie model."

He chuckles, and glances down at his lap, diffidently. "I've never been all that good at first impressions," he murmurs, flippantly. "My family are from Evansville, where dad owned this huge business. Security solutions, I think. Anyway, when he hit fifty, mom told him that working as hard as he did, was going to drive him into an early grave. So we sold up and moved here, when I was seven. Supposed to be some kind of family bonding, or some other bullshit excuse he fed mom to convince her to move here. We didn't know he had a girlfriend living a few miles down the road."

My mouth hung open in surprise, at both the story and the fact Ward told me. He doesn't seem like the open type. Looking up at me, he sighs, and started to apologise.

"Sorry, you probably didn't need to here that," he began. "We barely know each other."

"Well, you have seen me naked," I joke, trying to make light of the situation. It works, and Ward smiles, though his cheeks do tinge a little pink.

Ward takes me into the living room, where he sets me down on the sofa, laying a soft, woollen blanket over me, noticing my shivering body. He sits down across from me, and folds his arms into his lap. We were both aware that my toes were brushing his thigh.

"Who's nightie is this?" I ask him, tugging at the thin material. It was nice, the colour of lavender. Not my first choice of sleepwear, but nice all the same.

"It was my mom's," he tells me, and by the tone of his voice, I know she didn't make it.

"Your dad?"

He shakes his head. "I had two brothers, one younger, one older, and a little sister. None of them made it. My little sister was the last one to go. How about you? Where's your family?"

"Mom died when she got infected. My dad took me and my little sister to the camp near Cedar Lake. One day a couple of buses turn up, driven by the military. They say that they can only rescue the kids first, then they'll come back for the adults. Me and Lola get on, when she tells me she's dropped her teddy. I hop off and go search for it. By the time I've found it, the buses are driving off. I go to find my dad, only to see the supposed military turning on all the civilians, gunning them down without remorse. Dad got shot in the hand, and I found his body."

"That's why you want to get to Wright Patterson?"

"It's why _I have to_ get to Wright Patterson."


	12. Reckless and Restless

**A.N: Thank you for being patient with this one, it's been a while. I recently watched** ** _The 5th Wave_** **again, and fell in love with the story all over again. This chapter took a while, around ten days, but I hope that it's worth it. If you're returning to this story, then I love you for sticking with me on it. If you're new, then welcome! Please comment what you thought of the new update!**

 **Chapter Song:** ** _Bassically_** **by Tei Shi**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own** ** _The 5th Wave_** **at all, which is a shame because I'd love to have met Chloë Grace Moretz.**

 **DAISY**

I must have been more exhausted than I felt, as I wake up three hours later, on the sofa, curled up under a blanket. I'm jolted awake, the surroundings unfamiliar at first. However, memories of the past events - including the gunshot in the thigh - and I lean back onto the cushions, holding my head.

I close my eyes. Faces flood my mind, faces I loathed and faces I loved. The man who killed my father was almost certainly John Garrett, whose face sickened me. An alien parading around as a balding, potbellied Air Force Colonel, it was abhorrent. Lola; her's was a face that motivated me. Soft, and sweet, and shining.

Ward's face, now that was tricky. It was foreign, and it was unknown, but it gave me comfort. Of course I wouldn't go as far to say I trust him, but any man willing to carry an unconscious, and bleeding out stranger miles, take her into her home, and clean her, feed her, care for her, is worth a smile and a thank you at the very least.

Sick of staring up at the ceiling, I attempt to prop myself upright. The second I try to move my leg, the pain overwhelms me. The pain courses through my veins, and jumpstarts my heart, making my chest explode. I call out, and this is when the frustration sinks in. As long as there's a bullet sized hole in my leg, I'm trapped. This means not only am I forced to go insane, festering on this sofa, but it also means that I'm apart from my little sister. My five year old orphaned sister. I'd been there, I'd done that. I was alone for such a long time. I didn't turn out all that great, tarnished and spoiled, and who I am is the last person I wish for Lola to become. I've killed, I've ran, I've made mistakes. My outlook on life was bitter and cynical, and this was before the Others arrived. Lola's the brightest person I know, and if anything were to extinguish her passion and her hope, on account of me not being there to protect her, then I would never forgive myself.

So I had to get up. I had to force myself off this couch, before I rotted, before she slips further away from my reach.

I try again, this time with more zeal. The only thing I gain is another sharp stab of agony. Tears are burning my eyes now, and the harder I push, the more tears soil out onto my cheeks. I can't give up now, so I try, and I try, and I try, over and over again, until the pain became too much and my whole leg lit up. I could feel the blood sticking to the blanket, seeping down my leg, collecting under my body. I throw the covers off me, in resentment. Resentment of myself, more than anything. How could I be so foolish as to wind up here?

I certainly wouldn't have started to cry if I though Ward was in the house. Okay so sure he's seen me unconscious, and bleeding, and naked, which is perhaps as weak as one person could be, but as I wasn't physically awake, I had nothing to be insecure about. Now my eyes are open, I don't want him seeing me emotionally bare too.

I let loose all that I had bottled up. I didn't cry much in the woods, even though I was by myself, and this contributed to the waterworks which flowed freely from my eyes. Covering my face with my trembling hands, I release everything that I had left; emotions. These clothes weren't my own clothes, this house wasn't my house, this planet wasn't even mine any more. I didn't have parents, friends, a phone, a school, a sister, a future to look forward to.

I had nothing anymore. My tears were mine, and that much I was sure of. Weeping for what I had and lost, and for what I'll never get to have again, I had no control once I let go.

The second I hear footsteps on the porch, I dry my eyes. I'm painfully aware that my eyes are puffy, and at first holding back more tears was difficult. Ward was generous enough to pretend as though he hadn't known I was crying. Layer upon layer of clothing encased him, hinting at the cold January weather outside. His cheeks were rosy, however a bead of sweat decorated his brow, and due to the pile of lumber he had stacked up in his arms, I deduced that he had been chopping wood. Though it was a large pile, he didn't look strained at all by the heavy weight, his arms tense. I knew he was strong; he carried me all the way here, didn't he?

I'm watching him stack the wood beside the fireplace, which I hadn't even realised was lit, until he turns to look at me. Quickly I turn my attention to through the window, and notice that the sun was beginning to set. How long had I been asleep?

"What's the time?" I ask him, still not allowing myself eye contact.

"I don't know, can't be before five. Probably half four?"

Of course he's not going to know; just like how the cars, and the planes, and the phones and seemingly everything else ceased to work after the EMP hit, so did watches and clocks.

"Oh. Okay."

What else am I supposed to say? I'm looking down at my hands now, fiddling with my nails. They were the cleanest I'd seen in months, and I owe that to the first bath I'd had in months. Shame I can't remember the sensation.

God I hate feeling like this. Like some kind of victim, desperately in need of being saved by a muscled Greek god, who is as generous as he is chiselled.

"Just so you know, I'm not a damsel in distress who needs to be rescued or anything."

"You don't strike me as the 'damsel in distress' type," he replied, a grin playing on his lips.

"Good. I know the hole in my leg says something different, but really it was a stupid . . . _really stupid_ . . . mistake, and I'm going to make sure that it's never happening again."

"I don't doubt that."

"I know how to look after myself."

"Doesn't surprise me."

"Than you'll understand that I need to leave today. Or tomorrow."

This catches him off guard. Jaw falling slack, he furrows his eyebrows. He crosses the floor, so fast he's practically gliding. Kneeling down so that we're face to face, I can feel his warm breath on my collarbone, and it sends shivers down my spine.

"You can't leave. Not in this condition."

I shake my head at him, scoffing. "I thought you'd get it."

"Get that you want to hobble about the woods, bleeding everywhere, unable to withstand your own weight, attracting all sorts of unwanted attention out there, alone and by yourself? No, I'm having a little trouble grasping what's so appealing about that."

"Nothing is fucking _appealing_ anymore! There's nothing great about waking up in the apocalypse! You just have to open your eyes and get on with shit. Push on through, no matter what kind of albatross you have round your neck, not just curling up in a ball because something doesn't seem _appealing._ "

Ward seems taken aback by my sudden outburst. He doesn't flinch, barely even blinks, but he's surprised. It's a reaction, and I hope that it's enough of a reaction to allow him to rethink things. I didn't dare to look away now. I fixated my gaze on his eyes, and his eyes alone, soaking up and memorising every inch and curve of his hazel orbs. They were softening, almost, under my scrutiny, the pupils enlarging. Besides the concern and curiosity that was ever present in his stare, there was something else, woven in through all the confusion. A weakness of some kind. I saw my own face, reflected in his eyes, and I saw how beaten down I looked. My cheekbones were more prominent than ever, dark circles encased my own eyes, and my lips were dry and cracked. I just needed the signature raven black plaits, and I would be a shoe-in for a Wednesday Addams look-alike contest.

"You're not wearing an albatross around your neck. You have a bullet in your thigh," he sighed, looking away, clambering to his feet again. "There's no way in hell you're leaving like this."

Tears threatened to spill from my eyes again. Clenching my fists, I watched as he started to refuel the fire, his back purposefully to me.

"I can look after myself! I'm seventeen, not seven! But my sister is out there. My five year old sister. She can't look after herself, can she?" My voice is hoarse due to lack of fluids, and it sounds raw; both raw physically, and metaphorically. I'm so close to cracking, that I have to restrain myself.

"All you need right now is rest. That leg isn't going to heal itself."

"You say you had a sister. Would you have fought your way to the ends of the Earth for her? Even if you had a bullet in your leg, or your arm, or your chest, or your head? Or would just give up and let her face certain death, alone and scared, an orphan?"

Ward's jaw tightened. The chunk of wood in his hands snapped clean in half, and sent the flames flying. Embers dove free from the pit, and he jumped up, in frustration or fury of fright, I'm not sure. He paced over to the opposite wall, and then back to me. Handing me a photograph he had swiped of the shelf, he is chewing on his lip, and I can tell he too his holding back sobs.

The frame is heavy, and carved from a slab of polished wood. It held a picture of a family, five of them, beaming atop a snowcapped mountain somewhere in Europe. Each were clad in ski gear, and waving fervently at the camera. I spotted Ward in an instant; he couldn't have been more than twelve years old, and wore a bright blue jacket, so puffy his limbs were barely visible. Cheeks rosy, he couldn't possibly have looked happier. Either side of him were two boys, the oldest appearing to be less contempt with the situation. He was perhaps Ward's age now, and had a face on him like a slapped ass. Their younger brother, maybe eight years old, had on the coolest sunglasses an eight year old could have ever picked, and was holding his thumbs up. The parents, a good-looking pair, stood behind them, arms wrapped around each other, a little girl between them. Now she was barely a year old, and resembled Lola at that age so much that it was striking.

"That's my family," Ward finally said, gesturing to the five figures. "Christian's the oldest, he was eighteen then. The most conceited person I'd ever met, cared only about money and himself. He was the first to die. Car crash when the EMP's hit. Then my mom followed. She'd always been the life of the house, tucking everyone in and making us these fantastic roast dinners. Then one day it all stopped. I suppose she actually died first, when dad broke her heart. She became cold. Couldn't stand either one of her sons. We reminded her too much of dad. She died in town when the earthquakes occurred. Thomas, my younger brother, he died next. He was nicer than both me and Christian. Had better dreams too. Wanted to become a teacher. The infection took him. My dad then disappeared. Whether he got sick and couldn't face us, or he skipped town, he left. Haven't seen him since. That left me and Missy alone. She was eight, and so frightened of what had happened to the world. To our family. I promised I'd take care of her. I promised her that she would be safe. I promised her that I wouldn't let anything bad happen to her. I thought we were both immune. I thought that because she hadn't gotten sick when our brother did, that she was going to be alright. But I was wrong. She died, and it was awful. I remember the night she took a turn for the worst. I remember the screams, I remember her sobs. If there was anything I could have done to keep her alive, I would have done it in a heartbeat. Traded places with her, searched for a cure, gun down a million of those bastards in the sky; _I would have done it for her_."

"Then let me go and keep my sister alive," I whisper.

He doesn't say anything for a while, and at first I assume his answer has remained unchanged.

"When you can walk, we'll leave first thing."

With that he moves into the kitchen without another word. I smile triumphantly. Now didn't seem like the right time to tell him he didn't have to accompany me, that I didn't need an escort, but I'm picking and choosing my battles. I've won this one; I'll argue later. He's letting me stay, so I'll behave. For now.

Determined to relearn how to walk again, I lift my legs off of the sofa. The pain shoots up my thigh, and I call out, but instead of deterring me, it spurs me on. If I can persevere through the pain, the faster I'll be out of this eerily cosy house. There was something oddly extrinsic about this place; the way no part of it seemed upturned or changed in anyway. Almost as though it were a showroom, it resembled a page from a furniture catalogue. Six months ago I wouldn't have batted an eyelid. However after having my own home broken into on several occasions, and living on a street filled with ransacked and unrecognisable buildings, it was strange after so long to see a home unscathed by the Arrival.

My feet are bare, and I wiggle my toes. My right leg, the wounded one, twinges slightly, but otherwise I can move my toes. Standing up; now that was an entirely different issue. Propping myself up on the arm of the sofa, I manage to balance myself on my left leg. Gritting my teeth, thinking only of finding my little sister, I slowly but surely drop my foot down to the ground, in front of my other, as though I were taking steps. My toes touch the coarse carpet first, and then I lay the whole foot down flat, not daring to put any pressure on it just yet.

"I can't wait any longer," I remind myself, sternly. My breath was hitching in my throat.

For a short, blissful second, I was walking. I genuinely thought that I would be able to take another step, when the agony flares up in my thigh, as though I had set the wound alight. I cry out, and stumble forward. Bracing myself for the impact, I was surprised when it didn't come.

Looking up, I found that Ward had rushed to my aid, and was holding me in his arms. He stripped off a few layers, leaving only a thin t-shirt and his mother's nightie in-between us. His body radiated heat, and though I felt like lead, I was certain that he was accustomed to lifting heavier weights, due to the incredible definition of his muscles that was evident even through the material.

I was half-expecting him to be angry with me, fuming even. After the heavy confession I had coaxed out of him earlier, I wouldn't have blamed him if he had let me fall. But he didn't. He caught me, and he was smiling, warmly, as though the conversation had never been shared.

"I knew the second I left the room you'd do something reckless," he muttered, his breath tickling my eyelashes.

"Reckless? I prefer to call it being proactive," I correct, as he hoists me back onto the sofa, careful not to injure me further. I also noticed that he made sure not to touch my bare skin, safe for my elbow and hands.

He smirks, whilst I sigh at being confined to the sofa again. Unless I was actually paralysed, which the scene before contradicted completely, my entire lower body was growing numb. Sensing my restlessness, Ward picked me back up, quite literally sweeping me off my feet. Carrying me bridal style, my face inches from his, my hands pressed up against his chest, he managed to open the door and set me down on swing just below the porch. Wrapping me in the blanket that was trailing behind, he instructed that I hold on tight.

At first I didn't understand why he thought pushing me on a swing was a reasonable idea, but the wind lashing at my cheeks, cooling me and reviving me, I understood in an instant. It was the same kind of sensation you get when you hang your head out of a car window, or when you're running. I closed my eyes, and felt as though I were floating.

"Is this is what it feels like to fly?" I wonder out loud.

"I suppose," Ward answered, behind me. "What can you see?"

I open my eyes, and see the sky for the first time in too long. Living in Lilydale, so close to the city, every time I looked up I would see that gigantic waste of metal looming ever omnipresent above me. When we went into hiding, the forest canopy obstructed my view of the sky. The last time I remember looking up at the sky, was seconds before a bullet pierced through my leg.

"The clouds," I smile.

Ward took me back inside once the sun dipped behind the hilltop in the far west. He said that the lights had to stay off now, and asked me if that would be a problem. I shook my head. "You think after finding out there is actually such things as aliens, I'm still going to be afraid to sleep with the light off?" I jested.

"If anything, it gives you a valid reason to be afraid of the dark."

"Well, that's reassuring," I tell him, my heart sinking. As if I needed another reason to be scared.

Oddly enough I wasn't hungry, and neither was he. That burger had been fulfilling enough. Instead, he took me back upstairs to his bedroom, which I had adopted as my own in the meanwhile. _Where did he sleep?_ I shake my head. _Does it matter? It's a big house, they'll be a room somewhere._

He pulls the duvet round my body, and positions my leg so that it's cushioned by a mound of pillows. I thank him, and he smiles, turning to leave the room.

"Where . . . where are you going?" I ask him before I can stop myself.

"I'm just going to be down the hall. Don't hesitate to give me a shout if you need anything, okay?"

"Can you stay?"

I can't see his expression in the dim light. Immediately after the words spilled from my lips, I wanted to take them back. He's going to think I'm clingy or something, or prove that I do actually need his help. I just wanted some company. It was nice being with somebody after so long alone, that I was afraid that the second he steps out the of the doorway, he'll cease to exist.

"Oh," was all he said.

I was humiliated, and was at once grateful that he couldn't see how red my face had gotten.

"You don't have to, sorry that was stupid - "

But he's gone. I can feel the emptiness in the room, and the silence is consuming. The creaks coming from another room down the corridor were both unsettling and disheartening; he'd gone to bed without another word, letting me down in the process.

It's not as though he owed me anything though, to be honest. If anything, I owed him. I was probably overstepping anyway. He might have enjoyed his solitude, his undisturbed peace, and now he was forced to tolerate the presence of a wounded teenage girl, whining for her missing sister and demanding his last hamburgers. God, I would have thrown my fussy ass out already.

Glancing up at the pitch black ceiling, I chewed on my lip, my fingers interlocked across my ribs, feeling incredibly sorry for myself. _What is it about people leaving?_ My birth mom didn't hesitate to walk out on me, my dad never came to find me when he was released from prison, Jemma never came to say goodbye, Phil had no difficulty letting me and Lola clamber onto that bus. Now this relatively unknown stranger couldn't even bare to be in a room with me longer than necessary.

Except he didn't go. The door squeaked open, and then shut again, and I heard shuffling on the floor. Looking across the room, I struggled to make out a shadow, clutching something. The moonlight through the windows cast the only light we had available to us, and as Ward crossed the room, he was illuminated. I could see that he had dressed into a pair of blue plaid pants, and a thin blue shirt, which could only be presumed as his pyjamas, and was holding onto a couple of pillows and a duvet. He flashed me a smile, and began creating his bed on the floor.

This took me by surprise. Of course I didn't want him to sleep on the floor, but come to think of it, I wasn't sure if I wanted him in the bed either. But the fact that he didn't assume I meant he could share the bed, and had no qualms about making himself comfortable on the floor . . . it was admirable, to say the least.

"Goodnight Daisy," he muttered, glancing up at me.

I smile back, without even having to think about it. "Goodnight Ward."


End file.
